The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

FIFTEEN

An angry red dusk had fallen over the Fauschlag. Strange lightning carved the sky into facets, and the streets boiled with activity. War had again come to Middenheim; only now it was the servants of the Everchosen who found themselves under siege, and on multiple fronts.

The heart of the Ulricsmund, within sight of the Temple of Ulric, was one such front. Caradryan, Incarnate of Fire and Chosen of Asuryan, had not wasted time wondering how he had come from Athel Loren to the blasted streets of a human city, or what had happened to the other Incarnates. Indeed, there had been no time to even consider it.

Scarcely had the storm of magic about him and those elves who found themselves at his side ebbed when they found themselves under attack from the axe-wielding, black-armoured Kurgan they now faced. Wreathed in fire, the Phoenix Blade hissed as it smashed home into the chest of a howling northman and sliced him into two blackened halves. Before the edge of the blade could strike the blood-smeared cobbles, Caradryan had reversed the stroke, pivoted, and removed the head of a second northman.

Fire crawled along his lean limbs, and his hair crackled like a halo of flame as he fought. He’d lost his helmet during the battle in Athel Loren, but it was of no matter. He moved swiftly, the Phoenix Blade an extension of his arms. The haft slid through his grip as he raised the ancient halberd and spun, letting it sing out to its full length. Northmen fell back in a bloody tangle as he completed the turn. He retracted the weapon, pulling it in tight even as he came to a halt, before punching it forward to spit a slavering Chaos hound in mid-leap.

The captain of the Phoenix Guard tossed the dying beast aside and fell into a defensive stance as he retreated back towards the other elves. The sutras of Asuryan ran through his head as he gauged the strengths and weaknesses of the enemies who pressed close about him, pursuing him. Chaff before the wind, he thought. It was not arrogance which prompted that conclusion, though once it might have been. He had been arrogant in his time, possessed of a certainty in his own superiority. It had taken a god to humble him, to show him the truth of his place: to show him that just because he was alive, that didn’t mean he truly lived, and that just because he could speak, that didn’t mean he should.

You must crawl before you can walk, boy, Asuryan had said, his voice rising from the flames in the holy Chamber of Days. I will teach you, though in time, you might wish I had not. And he had. His lessons had begun that day, and a callow, spiteful brat had become, if not a better elf, at least a more tolerable one.

He signalled silently for the archers among his miniscule host to let loose a volley. Arrows hissed overhead, and the front ranks of the Kurgan fell. The rest retreated in disarray. Now that the initial impulse to violence had been curtailed, the northmen seemed to be coming to grips with the fact that an enemy force had materialised in their very midst. They wouldn’t remain hesitant for long, he knew. Then they would come again, and he and his small band would be overwhelmed.

He looked west, towards the slag-heaps and spoil piles which had been at his back when he’d arrived. Immense clouds of smoke and soot rose into the air above the area, and he recalled Be’lakor’s taunts about the artefact Archaon was looking for. He frowned, wishing that the voice of Asuryan still whispered to him. But he did not. Asuryan, like all of the gods, was dead. But his servants would do what they could, in his absence and in his name. Even if that meant nothing more than dying well.

Roars and shouts rippled from between the ruined buildings which loomed above and around them. The Kurgan were regrouping. Chieftains and champions would be restoring order, and in a few moments, the enemy would be upon them again.

Never before had his fate weighed so heavily on him. Even the power caged in his body was no guarantor of his survival; after all, that power, the raw fury of Aqshy, had consumed Ungrim Ironfist in the end. Is that my end, then? he thought. To be consumed in flames, like Ashtari?

He looked up, and saw the firebird swoop low over the elves. The great bird shrieked. His kind had long dwelt amongst the Flamespyres of Ulthuan, laying their eggs amongst the great alabaster pillars of rock, where magical flames flickered eternally. Now, with Ulthuan’s destruction, there were no more Flamespyres, and there would be no more firebirds. A wave of sadness swept through him as Ashtari’s shadow passed over him, and the cry of the bird reverberated through his bones. No, there would be no more firebirds.

But they could burn brightly one last time, before the end.

Yes. We can all burn. The thought passed across his consciousness as Asuryan’s whispers had once done. For a moment, it was as if the god were still alive. Fire does not diminish as it is divided, he thought. Instead, it only grows stronger. He almost laughed for the simplicity of it. What good was caging the fire in one warrior, when it could lend its strength to many? He raised the Phoenix Blade, and felt Aqshy struggle within him, seeking its freedom. He reversed his halberd and drove it down, blade-first, into the ground. Now you are unchained, he thought, go, spread and avail them of your strength. The fire rose around him, licking out to engulf those elves closest to him, even as the Kurgan mounted their charge.

As the northmen thundered towards them, Aqshy blazed forth, the flames growing and dividing a thousandfold. It spread through the ranks of his tiny army, and flames flickered to life along the edges of blades and in the eyes of his warriors, whether they had been born in Ulthuan, Athel Loren or Naggaroth. Fatigued bodies straightened with new strength, and warriors shouted, their spirits renewed. Caradryan rose to his full height, the Phoenix Blade held out before him. He watched the enemy draw close, and the last captain of the Phoenix Guard smiled.

‘In the name of Asuryan,’ he said, pitching his voice to carry for the first time in centuries, ‘and for the fate of our people… charge!’

So, you yet live, eh? Malekith thought, as he caught a glimpse of the fire suddenly rising above the rooftops of the Ulricsmund. In Malekith’s opinion, of them all, Caradryan was the least suited to wield the powers he had come by. Better by far that it had been given to one more suited to such things.

Still, one must make do, he thought, as he guided Seraphon through the reeking air above the city, towards the distant smoke. He recognised the telltale sign of an excavation immediately, having overseen similar enterprises in his life. How many magical baubles had he dug out of the mountains and ice-floes, forced to grub about like a dwarf while seeking an easier path to the power so long denied him? ‘Pity I never thought to simply rip it out of the Vortex, eh, Seraphon?’ he said, and stroked the dragon’s long neck. The black dragon screeched and unleashed another searing cloud of fire into the tangle of streets below.

Malekith leaned forwards in his saddle and peered down at the battle taking place below. His forces, such as they were, swept through the narrow streets and drove the skaven before them. The ratmen had been surprised to see the enemy on their doorstep and Malekith had seized the advantage, driving his cohort on, the Eternity Guard at the fore. In the tangled streets the skaven could not bring their numbers to bear, and his warriors harried them mercilessly.

The skaven were detestable creatures, barely worth unsheathing his sword for. He contented himself with sending his shadow-shapes to draw blood in his place, while he sat safely astride Seraphon. The dragon screeched again, and incinerated another squalid nest. Skaven ran shrieking into the open, their greasy fur alight. Malekith laughed.

His laughter faded as he looked up at the sky. Things pressed heavily against the clouds, half visible but wholly incomprehensible. He felt all mirth drain from him. It was as if the skin of the world were stretched too tight over some gangrenous wound. He could smell the foulness of it on the wind, and feel it in his blood.

Memories of another moment and another sky like that crashed down on him, and the Eternity King shuddered in his armour. He had stepped into the realms of Chaos once, in a desperate gamble, and fought his way free only by dint of luck and willpower. The sky in that dread country, where time and space had no meaning save that which was given them by the whims of deranged gods, had looked the same.

‘The world is dying, Seraphon,’ he murmured, stroking the dragon’s scales. ‘All of our striving has come to nothing, it seems. Even as my deceitful mother swore.’ He smiled beneath his mask. ‘So be it. I am king, and I will face the end as a king.’ He leaned back in his saddle, his cloak of shadows rippling about him as he gazed up at the roiling sky. ‘Heed me well, you puny gods. Malekith, son of Aenarion, last true lord of the elves, has come to meet you on the battlefield. And as my father before me, I shall carve my name into your mind, so that you might shudder at the mere thought of it for all eternity. I shall break your fragile schemes, throw down your blood-soaked champions, burn your halls of decadent indulgence and scour the plague-ridden earth with cleansing fire.’

He drew his sword. ‘You will win in the end, because that is the way of it. But I shall poison your victory with my last breath. Do you hear me?’ he roared, casting his words into the howling winds. ‘I shall not go lightly into destruction. I shall burn like a black sun, and you shall know fear before my standard is cast down. I will break this world before I let you claim it. This I swear.’ He swept his blade out as magical lightning slammed down around him, shattering buildings and casting the bodies of the dead high in the air. The sky twisted in on itself, and the red light grew darker.

Malekith paid it no mind. He bent over, urging Seraphon to greater speed. Let all the gods stand in his way, if they dared. He was the Eternity King, and this world was his. And he would not lose it now, not without a fight.

Arkhan the Black watched in satisfaction as Krell and the Doomed Legion brought the gift of death to the enemies of Nagash. It had been but the work of moments to lend his sorcerous might to the great spell Teclis had woven in Athel Loren. Another power, too, had been there, lending aid, and between them, they had bolstered the reach of the spell so that more than just those in Athel Loren were caught up in its folds.

Almost the entirety of Nagash’s army had been plucked from the pine-crags and transported to the streets of Middenheim to join their master for the final battle. And it was the final battle. Arkhan could feel it in his bones. It was like an ache, edging towards true pain, and he welcomed it. He reached up to touch the Everchild’s mark on his chest. Would her curse reveal itself soon, he wondered? Would it even get the chance? The very bedrock of the world was shifting beneath his feet, and he felt that soon it might swallow them all. Even Nagash himself might not survive. He pushed the thought aside, even as it occurred to him.

Oblivion, he thought. To sleep at last, no more to be awoken, no more to be set on the war-road. He watched as the northmen, heavy with sleep and ale, died swiftly beneath the axe of Krell. Do you welcome the end, as I do? he wondered, watching the wight wade through the enemy with obvious glee. Krell was an enigma to the living, but to Arkhan he was a brute, barely chained by Nagash’s sorcery, a creature not wholly one thing or another. Now he fought those he once might have led, and without hesitation. No, he decided. No, Krell would not welcome an end to his days of slaughter.

Nor would others, Arkhan suspected. Vlad was in this city somewhere – he could feel the vampire’s black soul, pulsing like a ghost-light – and he had no intention of succumbing to oblivion. Vlad was as treacherous as Mannfred, and, worse yet, far wiser than his protégé. When the end came, when the Great Work at last came to its resolution, Vlad would pit himself against Nagash; else why would he seek to curry favour with humans and elves alike?

And he was not the only one. Neferata too would rally her followers, and set her standards in opposition to the Undying King. Arkhan felt some slight satisfaction at the thought… He had counselled Nagash to leave her as castellan of Sylvania for that very reason. Let Neferata cull the more treacherous elements of the dead for her own armies. Best to know who the enemy was, when the time came.

‘COME,’ Nagash said. Arkhan looked up at his master. Nagash surveyed the carnage as if it were of no more import than a squabble for table scraps between dogs. The Great Necromancer started forwards, almost floating as the spirits of the dead rose to join the throng which surrounded him. Arkhan followed in his wake, lending his spells to those of his master as they drew those slain by Krell and his wights back to their feet and added them to the already substantial horde. Nagash, it seemed, intended to drown the city in an ocean of corpses.

It was an effective tactic, if lacking in finesse. Arkhan glanced at his master. Then, the Undying King had never been one for finesse. But once, at least, he had understood subtlety. Now, even that seemed to have been discarded. In his own way, Nagash was just as much a brute as Krell – he was not human, not any more. Nor was he the liche who had resurrected Arkhan to serve him in Nagashizzar. He had become something else, something far closer to the gods of old Nehekhara. A vast, irresistible force aimed at a distant target.

Cries filled the air. Arkhan looked up. Few buildings still stood in this part of Middenheim, and those that were in evidence had been repurposed into slave pens. Arkhan saw that many, if not all, of the captives were clad in the ragged and faded uniforms of a number of provinces. As the northlanders flooded past the ramshackle gates of the pens, the slaves had begun to cheer, but those cheers became screams as they saw the dead shambling in their captors’ wake.

‘Should we free them? Such chattel might be useful, in the coming fray,’ Arkhan said, looking up at Nagash. The other Incarnates, he knew, would look kindly on such an action. Such small mercies were the way to bind their unwilling allies to them all the more tightly.

‘YES. WE SHALL FREE THEM,’ Nagash intoned. He reached out a hand, and Arkhan felt the Winds of Death rise. Amethyst light played about Nagash’s outstretched claw, and then a darkling fire washed across the stinking pens which covered Neumarkt, choking the life from all it touched. The screams rose to a fever pitch, and then, all at once, fell silent.

But they did not stay silent for long. Soon, every corpse in Neumarkt was rising to its feet, and making to join the still-shambling throng. They smashed from their pens, and rose from the streets, and fell in with the horde, which continued on through the city and into what had once been the Great Park. Arkhan said nothing as the dead swarmed. Nagash was his master, and Arkhan’s will had never been his own. Better to argue with the storm, than with the Undying King.

There, amongst the burned-out trees and bald earth, the enemy had chosen to make their stand. The horde lurched to a stop at a simple gesture from Nagash. Arkhan took in the thick ranks of steel shields which lined the park’s eastern overlook, and the warriors who crouched behind them. Behind this bulwark, sorcerers chanted loudly, tracing strange sigils in the air, and the air grew hot and foul as fell sorceries were worked.

Nagash laughed. The distant chants faltered and fell silent, as the sound of it crawled across the park and into the ears and hearts of the enemy. It was a terrible sound, like the crackle of ice-covered bones as they were trod underfoot.

Nagash looked down at Arkhan, his eyes glowing balefully. He swept out his staff to indicate the followers of Chaos. ‘LOOK, MY SERVANT. MORE SLAVES TO BE FREED.’ Nagash set his staff and set the dead to moving again with but a thought.

‘LET US SHATTER THEIR CHAINS.’

Vlad von Carstein caught the northman’s chin and wrenched his head to the side. There was a sharp pop as the man’s neck snapped, and the vampire sank his fangs into the dying man’s throat. When he had finished, he shoved the body aside to join the others, and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. The blood tasted foul, but it was nourishing enough.

The group of northmen, clad in reeking furs and black iron, had been as surprised as he when he’d appeared suddenly in their midst. He’d felt the magics that Teclis had invoked, but had not grasped their intent until he had been surrounded by startled warriors. He’d recovered his wits first, and then butchered the lot. He looked around. He recognised the Palast District easily enough, though it had been substantially redecorated since he’d last visited Middenheim.

‘Ah, Jerek, my old friend, you would weep to see your city treated so,’ he murmured as he took in the sheer, bewildering scope of the desecration which had occurred. Even Konrad, bloody butcher that he had been, would have been in awe. The gardens and palaces he had once known so well were now lost beneath a charnel shroud.

Lacerated offerings to the Blood God hung from gore-slicked trees, or lay chained in fountains given over to bubbling blood. Bodies hung from gibbets or crow-cages, or were impaled on fire-blackened stakes. Some of the victims of these tortures still lived, mewling pitifully, their eyes gouged out and their tongues cut loose from their moorings. Even Vlad, who thought he had seen the worst the world could offer up in his centuries of life, was disgusted by it all. There was no artistry here, no purpose to the pain, and thus it was all a monumental waste. And if there was one thing Vlad could not abide, it was waste.

This was what awaited the world, if the Incarnates failed. He shook his head, more determined than ever to see this affair put to rest. He passed through the blood-sodden gardens like a ghost, delivering the mercy-stroke more than once on his way. Sounds of battle echoed through the district, and every figure he observed – be it armoured northerner or, more disturbingly, feral, pale-fleshed elf woman – was running south.

He followed them at a safe distance, killing only when necessary to hide his presence, and keeping to the walls and rooftops when he could. He was certain, given the sounds of battle wafting back towards him, that he would find allies at the end of his journey, though whether they would be in any state to aid him was another matter. He pursued the horde to the heart of the Middenplatz, where a scene of impressive carnage met his eyes.

Perched atop the northern gatehouse, he watched as treemen traded booming blows with bestial giants, and braying gor-bands hewed at shrieking dryads with crude axes. Whistling arrow volleys raced across the red skies, thudding into horned skulls and twisted bodies. The elves and their allies were surrounded on all sides by a seething ocean of madness. Beastmen, blood-cultists and daemons all were in evidence, and no matter how many fell, more took their place. As Vlad watched, one howling berserker cut through his own bestial allies to reach the elves, only to be smashed aside by a treeman a moment later.

He saw Alarielle at the battle’s heart, jade life-magic flowing from her hands, healing wounds and restoring her fallen warriors to fight anew. Even so, it was plain enough to Vlad that Alarielle was growing weaker. She was pale and drawn, and her limbs trembled with fatigue… or perhaps pain. He suspected that she would have fallen long since, had the ancient creature fighting at her side not supported her. The vampire recognised Durthu easily enough – the treeman was hard to forget. The indomitable creature stood like a breakwater against the forces which lapped about them, and his mighty fists and gleaming sword brought death to any who sought to harm the Everqueen.

Vlad had commanded enough armies in his time to recognise when one was doomed. Alarielle’s forces were being steadily ground down, and even his power was not so great as to turn the tide. An army was required, and he was but one man. He sank to his haunches and watched. He could not save them, and he had no intention of dying with them, but even so, he could not make himself depart. Alarielle fought on, despite her weakness, and Vlad could not help but be enthralled.

It might be possible, he thought, to save her. Her warriors were doomed, but if he were fast enough, he might be able to extricate her from the slaughter. She would not thank him for it, he suspected, but the other Incarnates certainly would. He readied himself to lunge into the fray, but before he could so much as twitch, the air was split by the roar of cannons and the entire eastern wall of the Middenplatz blew apart. Chunks of jagged stone flew across the square, pulverising beastmen and blood-cultists in their dozens.

Vlad was nearly knocked from his perch by the force of the explosion. As he regained his balance, he heard the crack of gunfire. Bullets punched through the spiralling dust and gromril armour gleamed in the smoke. Dour and dolorous voices erupted into song, and the sound of heavy boots on the march filled the air.

Alarielle and her forces had needed an army, and it seemed an army had come. Vlad smiled as he recognised Gelt, standing tall among the runic banners of the Zhufbarak. Hammerson was with him, looking none the worse for wear. That they both had survived was a surprise, but a pleasant one. Vlad drew his sword and readied himself to join the fray as, with a great shout, the armoured ranks of the dwarfs started forwards, and battle was joined.

Wendel Volker threw back his head and howled. His sword flashed, cutting down a skaven in mid-leap, and he led his followers forwards. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he caught glimpses of what had befallen Middenheim in his absence. The air stank of ash and ruin, and rage warred with sorrow in him as he led his motley band of priests, flagellants, foresters and knights into the heart of the skaven horde to avenge the city he had fought for and failed.

Teclis had brought them back, somehow. The last Volker recalled, he and his men had been hurrying towards the King’s Glade, to lend aid to the embattled Incarnates. Now they fought through the tangled streets of the Sudgarten, against ratmen rather than daemons. He and his men loped in the wake of the Emperor and those knights who still had horses to call their own – banners bearing the emblems of the Reiksguard, the Knights Griffon and the Knights of the Twin-Tailed Comet rose above the wedge of armour and horseflesh that charged into the teeth of the jezzail-fire. Clouds of gun smoke rolled across the street, momentarily obscuring the enemy battle-line. A bullet plucked a howling flagellant off his feet and knocked him sprawling. Volker felt a shot whizz past his cheek, but didn’t slow.

He longed to lose himself in battle, to join the ghosts he saw swirling about him everywhere he looked. Goetz, Dubnitz, Martak and others, including faces he had not seen since the fall of Heldenhame, like the brutal Kross or old Father Odkrier. They watched him from the windows and doorways, from behind the enemy ranks and just out of the corner of his eye. They coalesced in the smoke, and their faces rose through the blood that trickled between the cobbles. They spoke to him, but he could not hear them. Ulric’s snarls drowned them out.

The fury of the wolf-god burned in his breast, driving him on through the stinking powder smoke despite his fatigue. Gregor Martak’s parting gift had been less a blessing than a curse. Volker had not slept since he’d escaped Middenheim the first time, leading those survivors he could to the dubious safety of Averheim, thanks to the godspark nestled within him. Most of those he’d saved were now dead, so perhaps it hadn’t mattered either way.

He felt his bones shudder in their envelope of flesh, and knew Ulric was lending him strength. He pivoted as the god growled a warning, and caught the crashing blow of a rat ogre on his shield. The force of the impact drove him to one knee. A burst of light blinded him as he readied himself for a second blow. He heard the rat ogre shriek, and saw it turn and rear back, pawing at its eyes, as a golden, glowing shape rose up before it. A blade flashed, and the creature toppled like a felled tree.

The elf, Tyrion, galloped past, shining like the sun, and behind him came the knights of the elves, moving more quietly, but no less swiftly, than their human allies. The elves had appeared near the western gatehouse of Middenheim alongside the Emperor and his followers. Now they fought side by side, as they had centuries past, against the forces of another Everchosen. Volker rose to his feet and turned, Ulric muttering in his head. He cannot be trusted, the wolf-god snarled. He is the thief’s brother!

‘Shut up,’ Volker hissed. A crude spear dug for his vitals and he smashed it down with the bottom of his shield, before driving his sword into the throat of the skaven who held it. He drove forwards, forcing skaven aside with his shield, and cutting down those who would not be moved. Around him, men and elves moved up, whether on horseback or on foot, and the skaven steadily retreated, falling back through crossroads and squares.

You dare? I am Ulric!

‘You’re bloody annoying is what you are,’ he muttered. The god had been in his head since Martak had given him up, and he hadn’t shut up since. Sometimes, Ulric talked so much that Volker had trouble telling which thoughts were his, and which belonged to the wolf-god. Every day, there was a little less of the man he had been, and a little more of the thing Ulric was turning him into. The wolf-god had eaten him hollow.

He heard the scream of the Emperor’s griffon and saw the beast swoop low over the melee, scooping up skaven in its talons as it went. It dashed the unlucky ratmen against the cobbles as it banked and turned. The Emperor clung to the beast’s back and swung his runefang out, lopping off limbs and crushing skulls.

He is tiring, Ulric rumbled. He is but a man, with a man’s frailties. Volker felt a moment of panic, and muttered, ‘Is that what you were waiting on, then? To jump from me to him, the way you left Martak?’ He knew, without knowing how, that if that occurred, he would die not long after. Part of him was even looking forward to it.

I did not leave Martak. I died with him. As I will die with you, Wendel Volker. I have split myself again and again, until I am but a sliver of the god-that-was, all to survive, to reach this moment, when I might sink my fangs into the flesh of the one who took my city – my people – from me. I am Ulric, the god of battle, wolves and winter, and I will have my vengeance!

‘For all you know, Teclis is dead,’ Volker growled. He hacked down on an armoured stormvermin, knocking the black-furred skaven off its feet. It lashed out at him with a heavy, serrated blade. He felt the tip scrape across his cuirass, and dodged back. Before the skaven could get to its feet, his sword hammered down to split its skull. ‘And if he’s not, we might need him,’ he added, desperately.

I will have vengeance, Wendel Volker. Whether the world lives or dies, Middenheim will be avenged. You will be avenged, Ulric growled.

Then his head ached with the mournful cry of innumerable wolves, and he threw back his head and howled again and again, as he fought on. And as he fought, Wendel Volker’s tears turned to ice on his cheeks.

‘Waaagh!’

Orcs spilled through the streets like a green tide of violence, and unprepared northmen and panicked skaven drowned beneath them. They hacked, thumped and head-butted their way through the ruins of Middenheim’s merchant district and with every foe who was pulled down by the brawling horde, be they armoured Chaos warrior or skittering skaven jezzail team, the war cry only grew louder. It was a deep, feral rumble that rose and spread ahead of the onslaught, louder even than the sounds of battle.

‘Waaagh!’

Crude blades smashed down through iron shields and crumpled steel helms as the orcs hacked at their foes with a wild abandon, inflamed by a force beyond their comprehension. They chopped at the enemy until their blades blunted and broke, and then continued to pummel their foes with bloody fists.

The greenskin warlord fought at the head of the horde, his axe spinning like a bloody whirlwind about him as he bellowed challenge after challenge. Massive, broken-toothed and clad in battered armour, where Grimgor Ironhide went, the enemy shield-walls split and Chaos champions died, the names of their gods still on their lips. Monstrous beasts, strong with the stuff of Chaos, fell dismembered, and their remains were trodden into pulp as the horde rampaged on through the streets, tireless and relentless.

Grimgor caught a northman by his bone-bedecked beard, and yanked the unlucky man forwards. Their skulls met with a resounding crack and the northman slumped back, his skull cracked open like an egg. Grimgor licked blood and brains from his lips as he shoved the body aside and drove his axe down on an upraised shield covered in writhing, shrieking colours. He split the shield, releasing a wailing prismatic spray, and reached through the ruins to grip the throat of its bearer. ‘Get over ’ere,’ he growled. He flung the brawny warrior into the air, and roared, ‘Lads, catch!’

Behind him, his Immortulz cheered as they hacked at the fallen human, painting themselves with his blood and howling with laughter at his screams. Ahead of Grimgor, the humans were falling back, retreating through the close-set streets, keeping their shields between themselves and the orcs. He’d fought them long enough now that he knew what they were planning. The horse ’umies, on the plains, would scatter and reform – it was like trying to bash rain. But these were the iron ’umies… They’d fall back and form a shield-wall, and wait for their bosses to send for reinforcements. He knew from experience that iron ’umies could hold out for a long time. If they didn’t want to move, they didn’t.

For some reason, that wasn’t as pleasant a thought as it might normally have been. He felt an itch, just to the left of his skull, and knew Gork wanted him to keep moving. Go fasta, the god growled, fastafastaFASTA!

Grimgor threw back his head and bellowed in frustration as Gork’s words cascaded across his brain. Why couldn’t the ’umies just take a kicking? They had to know that they couldn’t get away from him, or resist him. They were worse than the bull-stunties, with their armour and fire and whips.

A grin split Grimgor’s grotesque features as he recalled how the stunties had wailed as he’d torn down their city of pillars and pits, freed their slaves and toppled their statues. That’d teach them to break their staves on his hide. That’d teach them to try to make Grimgor a slave. The grin faded, and the old anger came back, hotter and fiercer than any stunty fire-pit. He lifted Gitsnik and pressed the flat of the great axe to his brow. His gnarled frame was a patchwork of scars, most earned properly, in the heat of battle. He’d fought stunties – both kinds – and rats and gits and big-bellies aplenty in the past few months, but it had always come back to the bull-stunties and their fire-pits. Their whips and chains and iron staves.

They had given him his first scars when he’d been no more than a runt. And he owed them for that.

Gork had shown him favour, filling him with strength enough to kick over the stunties’ towers and turn their ziggurat of black obsidian into rubble. But first, he’d broken skulls and taken heads and put together the biggest Waaagh! around – orcs, goblins, even ogres. After Gork had blessed him with his strength, he had crushed Greasus Goldtooth’s skull with the ogre’s own mace. In the years that followed, he had broken the back of the Necksnapper and shattered the lodgepoles of the Hobgobla Khan. He had cracked the Great Bastion, and burned the dragon-fleets of Nippon. The East was green, and it was his. But it hadn’t been enough. Something was pulling him west. Gork, maybe, or Mork, drawing him towards a bigger fight. A better fight. He could feel it in his veins, thrumming along, like that time Gitsnik had got hit by a lightning bolt.

He’d thought, at the time, he’d found that fight in the city of the bull-stunties, but the gods hadn’t even let him enjoy the krumpin’ he’d given them before they’d scooped him up, and all his boys with him, and deposited him into the middle of a fight. A big fight, bigger than any he had ever seen. There were ’umies, rats, stunties, point-ears, and bone-men – every flavour of opponent. For a moment, Grimgor thought he’d died and gone to Gork’s hall, but then he’d got an arrow in the head and realised that they were in a human city. He reached up to scratch the wound. The arrow had got dislodged somewhere along the way, and the wound had already scabbed over. Gork clamoured in his head and Grimgor shook his head in irritation.

He lowered his axe and eyeballed the northmen. He grunted and turned. Gork wanted him to get to the heart of the city, and fast, and Grimgor wasn’t of a mind to argue with the gods… not yet anyway. This situation called for a bit of… Morkishness. ‘Oi, Wurrzag!’ he bellowed, punching his Immortulz aside to clear a path. ‘Get up here, ya git.’ He knew the crazed shaman would be close. Wurrzag was never very far away these days, not since Gork had reached down and given Grimgor a flick on the noggin.

Orcs and ogres made way for a capering, tattooed figure, wrapped in badly stitched hides and wearing a wooden mask decorated with feathers. Wurrzag wobbled to a halt before Grimgor, twitching in time to some internal rhythm. Grimgor grimaced. The air around the shaman sparked and crackled with energy that made an orc’s blood fizz and his flesh itch. Wurrzag shook his staff under Grimgor’s nose. ‘All hail da once and future git,’ the shaman warbled. The shaman hesitated in mid-hop. ‘Werl, one o’ dem, anyways.’

‘Yeah, shut up wiv’ that nonsense and go do that fing you do, right?’ Grimgor snarled, gesturing towards the enemy with his axe. He wanted to plant Gitsnik right in the middle of the shaman’s stupid mask on general principles, but Wurrzag was too valuable. ‘They is in my way, and I want ’em gone. Gork wants me somewheres else, and I intend to go there. But that ain’t here, so go blast ’em.’

‘Yes, oh mighty git,’ Wurrzag squawked, shaking his staff.

‘And stop calling me a git,’ Grimgor roared, as the shaman twitched past him. He turned and raised his axe. ‘Golgfag, get over ’ere,’ he snarled, as he caught the ogre’s attention. Golgfag muscled aside a couple of orcs, and only had to thump one of them. They were scared of the ogre, and Grimgor didn’t like that. The only thing his lads ought to be scared of was him. ‘Get your lads up here,’ he bellowed at the ogre. ‘Me and you are breaking that shield-wall. You got a problem with that?’ He glared at the ogre challengingly. Golgfag and his ogres had joined the Waaagh! as it crossed the Worlds Edge Mountains, and he’d come close to killing the mercenary more than once. Every time, Gork had whispered to him and quelled his anger.

The big ogre had proven more useful than most of his greedy kin – he was as smart as any runt, and dead sneaky when he needed to be. It had been Golgfag who had got the gates of Zharr Naggrund open, so Grimgor’s lads could barrel in. The ogre had held the great iron gates open, despite having half a dozen stunty crossbow bolts in him. He and Grimgor had fought side by side and back to back up the steps of the black ziggurat, and had toppled the massive statue of the stunties’ bull-god, alongside Borgut Facebeater and Wurrzag. That had been a good day, even if he’d had to kill ol’ Borgut later, on account of him trying to make himself boss. He missed Borgut. Not at the moment, but in general.

‘Got no problems, boss,’ Golgfag rumbled. He wore a heavy horned helm that added to his already considerable height, and for an instant, Grimgor considered cutting him off at the knees. He didn’t like standing in the ogre’s shadow. ‘Happy to bash whoever, wherever, whenever.’

‘Good,’ Grimgor grunted. He heard the air sizzle behind him, and felt his skin prickle. The light turned green, and cast weird shadows on the buildings around them. All around him, orcs, ogres and goblins set up a caterwauling and men screamed. He turned to see Wurrzag dancing a madcap jig as the shield-wall crumbled beneath a storm of crackling emerald lightning. Grimgor felt the strength of Gork rising in him, an elemental fury that outstripped even his own boiling anger. He grinned and Golgfag stepped back warily.

‘Let’s get to bashing then,’ Grimgor snarled. He lifted his axe and waved his Immortulz forwards. Golgfag roared out for his followers, and the mingled wedge of black orcs and ogres took the fore as they thundered towards the enemy lines that Wurrzag had softened up. Grimgor sped up, wanting to get the first lick in. He caught Gitsnik in both hands and lifted it. ‘I’m gonna stomp you ta dust, and break your bones,’ he roared, hurling his words towards the faltering shield-wall. ‘I’m gonna pile yer bodies in a big fire and cook ’em good! I’m gonna bash heads, break ya faces and jump up and down on the bits that are left!’

And when I get where Gork wants me ta go, I’m gonna get really mean, he thought in satisfaction. Then, he was upon the enemy, and there was no need to think at all.

SIXTEEN

‘How tedious. Surely we are all capable commanders. I do not need my hand held, even if I were intending to commit myself to an afternoon of carnage,’ Sigvald the Magnificent groaned, one arm flung over his head as he reclined on the steps of the dais which led up to Archaon’s throne. ‘Dechala, my love, please inform the Everchosen that I am afflicted with ennui and will be unable to sully my fingers with the grime of battle today.’ He flapped a hand at the serpentine shape of the daemon princess known as Dechala the Denied One.

Dechala possessed the upper body of the beautiful elven princess she had once been, and the lower body of an immense serpent. She hissed at Sigvald. Whether it was a sign of annoyance, or some form of flirtation, Canto could not say. He watched as she slithered closer to the manacled form of the elf mage, Teclis, where he lay huddled next to the dais. His robes were filthy and blackened and his face was turned away from the gathering, but Canto knew he was still paying close attention, even so. He was a cool one, was the elf, and he stank of powerful magics. Even though he was a prisoner, Canto knew it was best not to get too close to him. Dechala, however, seemed unconcerned. She caressed him gently, as if trying to tease a lover awake, and leaned close, her tongue flickering.

She caught Canto watching her, and wrinkled her nose in a fashion that had him momentarily forgetting the six arms and the spiky bits. Don’t even think it, Canto, he thought. Those who knew such things said that Dechala’s embrace was a moment of pleasure, followed by an eternity of pain. She had been in Ind, he knew, alongside Arbaal, bringing the wrath of the gods down on that far land, until she and her rival had been scooped up by whatever dark forces were responsible for such things and brought to Middenheim.

He turned away as one of the others he’d brought to the temple at Archaon’s behest made his feelings known. ‘Cease your prattling, Geld-Prince,’ Arbaal the Undefeated rumbled. ‘The gods have called us here to do battle with their enemies. Would you deny their wishes?’

‘And are you so arrogant as to know the wishes of a god not your own?’ the horned, winged creature known as Azazel, the Prince of Damnation, purred as he sauntered out from behind Archaon’s throne. The daemon prince’s talons clicked across the haft of Ghal Maraz, where it was mounted above the throne.

Arbaal growled wordlessly and hefted his axe. A large, scaly paw pressed itself to his cuirass, stopping him from hurling himself at Azazel. ‘None of us know the will of the gods,’ Throgg, the self-proclaimed King of the Trolls, rasped. ‘At least not until it is too late.’ The troll was larger than any other of his kind that Canto had ever had the misfortune to run across. And his eerie self-control was equally as disturbing as Dechala’s sinuous attempts at seduction. They said the troll had been plucked from Kislev by the whims of the gods, and that he bore the marks of battle on him. Canto wondered who would be insane enough to go toe-to-toe with Throgg. Then, he wondered whether they had survived.

‘All I know is that I was enjoying the finest flesh Parravon had to offer, before I was whisked back to this inglorious termite mound,’ Sigvald said. ‘I am without even my sword-boy, or my mirror-eunuchs. How am I expected to perform without my mirror-eunuchs?’

‘We all have our burdens to bear, Geld-Prince,’ Mannfred von Carstein said. The vampire examined his talons, not looking at Sigvald, or, more pointedly, at the shrouded figure of Isabella von Carstein, who stood well away from the creature who shared her name. The two vampires had studiously ignored one another since Mannfred’s arrival.

Canto watched Mannfred warily. He still didn’t understand why Archaon had allowed the beast, or, for that matter, creatures like the renegade dark elf priestess Hellebron, into the city. They were treachery incarnate, and if they knew what the Everchosen was planning – indeed, if any of the gathered champions knew – they would turn on him in an instant. ‘And in any event, eunuchs are easily replaced,’ Mannfred continued.

‘Are you volunteering, prince of leeches?’ Sigvald purred. ‘I believe I have just the paring knife for you…’

Mannfred laughed. ‘Would that I could, barbarian.’ The vampire turned his red gaze on Sigvald. ‘Would that I could match my strength against yours, but… well. We have enemies enough, I think, and on our very doorstep.’

‘Our doorstep, vampire?’

Canto stiffened as Archaon’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘You have brought them all?’ the Everchosen said, gazing at the assemblage.

‘As many as weren’t already engaged, my lord,’ Canto said, as Archaon stepped past him. ‘Hellebron has already brought the foe to battle in the Palast District, and only a few of the skaven are not currently hard-pressed,’ he continued, gesturing to the tiny knot of skaven who stood near von Carstein. The ratmen looked nervous, as well they should have – they were not well liked by their allies. ‘Harald Hammerstorm will do as he wills, as ever. And the other warlords send their regrets, I’m sure.’ Not that there were many of the latter left. Most of the champions and warlords worth the name had already gone to join the gods, in one fashion or another. Those that hadn’t died in the taking of the city, or during the assault on Averheim, had crossed Archaon and paid for that temerity with their lives.

‘What of the Broken King?’ Archaon asked, his amusement evident.

Mannfred and Isabella were not the only dead things in Archaon’s service. The Broken King was another – a foreign potentate, ruler of a dead land, clad in shattered vestments and filthy wrappings. He was one of the skeletal princes of far Nehekhara, though which one, he had never revealed, even as he prostrated himself before the Everchosen’s throne in the months after the destruction of Averheim.

‘He has already gone to confront the enemy,’ Canto said. In truth, he did not know where the Broken King was, or what he was up to, and he did not feel like hunting the creature down to ask it. Let it live or die, as it wished.

Archaon said nothing for long moments. Then he shook himself slightly, and murmured, ‘Monsters and fools. How fitting.’ He looked around. ‘We are besieged. You all know this, and you know too that this is the last roll of the dice for our enemies. This is the last gasp of the civilised lands, and when this battle is done… the gods will reward us.’ Archaon made a fist. Canto felt a chill streak through him, and he glanced upwards, towards the red sky clearly visible through the shattered dome of the temple.

The gods are watching, he thought. But he didn’t think they particularly cared who won. He looked at Archaon. You don’t either. Not really. Because you think you’ve already won. It’s a foregone conclusion to you… Because it wasn’t about battles or enemies for Archaon. Not now. Now it was all about time and fire. While the rest fought, he contented himself with stoking the flames. Canto gripped the hilt of his sword and wondered how one might escape those flames when one was already in the pot.

Archaon was still talking. ‘The enemy are scattered, for now. If we are quick, we might be able to destroy them piecemeal. If not, well…’ He spread his hands. ‘Such is the will of the gods.’ He gestured to Arbaal. ‘Most important are those closest to hand. A host of elves is on our doorstep, just east of here. Their skulls are yours, should you wish.’

Arbaal nodded silently. Archaon looked at Dechala. ‘You will take the south – the Sudgarten. The enemy muster there as well.’ As the elf-snake hissed her agreement, Archaon motioned to Isabella. ‘And you, countess… you shall reinforce Hellebron in the Palast District. Catch the enemy between the engines of blood and pox, and crush them.’

Isabella, face hidden behind her veil, gave no sign that she’d heard. Instead, she simply turned and strode away, accompanied by Arbaal and Dechala. Canto looked towards the dais and saw that Azazel was gone as well, though the daemon prince had been given no orders. Archaon didn’t seem concerned for such trivialities. He turned to the skaven. ‘Darkendwel,’ he said, addressing the large shape which crouched above the knot of skaven warlords, perched high on a broken statue.

The shadowy shape of the skaven verminlord twitched as Archaon spoke its name. The squabbling warlords and seers gathered about it fell silent as the Everchosen turned to face Darkendwel. ‘The orcs in the merchant district. Do they fight alongside the others?’ Archaon asked. ‘Have our enemies grown so desperate as to elicit the aid of mindless savages?’

‘No, O most mighty King-With-Three-Eyes,’ the verminlord chittered. It hesitated, and then added, ‘Or such does not appear to be the case.’

‘Then find out,’ Archaon rumbled. ‘Lead them towards… the Wynd, I think. Let us see if they prefer the elves as playmates.’ Archaon cocked his head, as if in thought. Then, ‘I was sorry to hear that your fellow verminlord, Visretch, fell to the blade of the elf-prince, Tyrion. I had much I wished to discuss with him, when the time came.’ Canto smiled as Darkendwel tensed. One of the verminlords had been responsible for killing Valten, against Archaon’s wishes. The Everchosen hadn’t found out which one had struck the blow, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

‘He died in your name, O most magnificent god-king,’ the verminlord intoned.

‘Then you can do no less,’ Archaon said. He turned and pointed at Sigvald. ‘The dead are yours. I want the skull of this so-called Undying King for a drinking cup, Geld-Prince.’ Archaon glanced at Throgg. ‘You will take your forces and join him. Sigvald will require assistance.’

‘I require no such thing,’ Sigvald said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘And I will not share my glory with an ape in a crown.’ He gestured dismissively towards Throgg. ‘I can barely tolerate his smell… How do you expect me to fight alongside him?’

‘I do not,’ Archaon said simply. ‘I expect you to die beside him. Perhaps I am mistaken. I am curious to see which it is.’

Sigvald gaped at him. The Geld-Prince’s hand strayed towards the hilt of his sword, but Throgg reached him first. One scaly hand clamped down hard, trapping Sigvald’s hand and wrist. The troll-king grinned unpleasantly. ‘Come, beautiful one. We have carrion birds to feed, and dead men to set to rest,’ Throgg rumbled. Sigvald jerked his hand free of the brute’s grip and hurried away, Throgg trailing after.

‘And what of me, O mighty Everchosen? What are your commands for me?’ Mannfred said, bowing obsequiously, as they left. Archaon climbed the dais and took down Ghal Maraz before he glanced at him.

‘Go where thou wilt, and die as you wish, leech. I have no commands for you, save that you remember whose side you have chosen, and that the gods have your scent, and they will harry you to destruction, should you forget.’ Archaon gestured dismissively with the hammer.

Canto smiled slightly, pleased. Mannfred annoyed him. Only room enough for two lickspittles in this court, I’m afraid, he thought. As if the vampire had heard his thoughts, Mannfred turned a red-eyed glare on him. Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but Mannfred stormed past him, trailing shadow and the stink of old blood in his wake.

‘I’m going to have to kill him, I think,’ he said, without thinking.

‘Possibly,’ Archaon said. He still held Ghal Maraz in his hands. ‘Then, possibly, it shall become unnecessary before long. It is all winding down, Canto. Can you not hear it? The wind which howls through the streets is the dying gasp of this sad world. The tremors which shake this mountain are but its death-shudders. Soon, it will all be done. All lies revealed, all gods thrown down, and the earth and sky made one.’

Canto shivered in his armour. His hand was still around the hilt of his sword. One blow, that’s all it would take… One swift blow, and then… Cathay, he thought. Only there wasn’t a Cathay any more, or an Araby, or anywhere that wasn’t here. Still… just one blow…

‘It would take more than one, Canto, and you know it,’ Archaon said, softly. He did not turn around. Canto froze nonetheless. ‘You had your chance once, to change the fate of all things, and you squandered it. You ran, rather than make a choice. In the end, it all comes down to choices, Canto. You chose to remain a man, in a world fit only for monsters. And now you face another choice.’

Archaon turned, Ghal Maraz swinging loosely in his grip. ‘The gods are always of two minds, Canto. One mind says strike, and the other says hold. The gods see all possibilities and none, and they are blinded by this wealth of knowledge. So they plot within plot, and scheme against themselves, even in their moment of victory. For if I succeed, the game ends. The world ends and their playthings are but ashes on the cosmic wind.’ He lifted the ancient hammer, turning it slightly in his grip, as if to admire the way the light glinted off the runes which marked its surface. ‘Like this hammer, the Dark Gods are both creator and destroyer, and they cannot make up their minds as to which they are in any given moment.’

He swung the hammer experimentally. ‘They are idiot gods, Canto – they are more powerful than you can conceive, but in truth, they are little better than giggling imbeciles, drawing shapes in the mud. They will crush this world into dust and blow it away, and then move on to some other world, some other place where the game begins again. That is the truth of it.’ Archaon tossed the hammer aside carelessly, and it thumped down with a hollow clang. ‘In a way, you were wise not to pledge your allegiance to any of them. That alone has given you the will to decide your own fate. The others will fight, because their gods demand blood. But you have a choice. Indeed, you have so many choices that I cannot help but envy you. I have no choices left to make, and am bound to my path.’

Canto shook his head. ‘What… what choices?’ he croaked.

‘You could kill me,’ Archaon said. He spread his arms. ‘It might be enough to halt what has begun. With me dead, the gods would certainly turn away, though whether in satisfaction or anger, I cannot say. Or you could run. You could flee, and live for however long the world remains. I will not stop you.’ Archaon crossed his arms. ‘You could fight. You could be Unsworn no more, and perhaps even gain some measure of power in these final hours. Become a demigod like Azazel or Dechala, eternal and inhuman.’

Canto stared at him. After a moment, he said, ‘None of those sound particularly enjoyable.’ He looked down at his hand, clamped tight to the hilt of his sword, and, not for the first time, thought of Count Mordrek and the way he’d died. An ending, that’s all any of us are after, he thought.

‘Nonetheless, the choice is upon you at last. What do you wish to do, Unsworn?’ Archaon asked. ‘Which road will you take? Once, you showed some small touch of mercy, and spared the world its due punishment. Now, you have that chance again. Will you show it mercy a second time?’ There was something in Archaon’s voice which made Canto hesitate. A note of pleading perhaps, or resignation. It was the voice, not of a conqueror, or a great champion, but a man tired unto death, and wanting only oblivion.

Run and hide or stand and fight, Unsworn – your appointed hour has come round at last, he thought. He’d thought it had passed, but Middenheim, Averheim… it had all been a single moment, stretched over weeks and days. But now it was done, and he could no longer avoid it. He could only choose, as Archaon had said.

Canto’s sword was in his hand, before he knew he had drawn it. There were no voices in his head, no whispers, only the sound of a tortoise of iron and crystal as it trudged on and on, into endless wastes, searching for something that could never be found. His sword slashed down towards Archaon’s head, and then there was a flash of light, and pain and he was falling back – back onto the ground.

‘I hoped you would run,’ Archaon said solemnly. The Slayer of Kings hung loosely in his hand, its edge red with blood. It had cut through Canto’s armour as if it were nothing. ‘If you had run, I could have spared you this, for a few hours more. You have served me well, and without complaint, and I would have liked to have given you that much.’

Canto couldn’t breathe. There was a fire in his belly, and it was consuming him from the inside out. Even so, he still managed to laugh. ‘I… am running,’ he wheezed. ‘Death is the only escape from… from what’s coming.’ Pain swelled in him, choking off his laughter. Archaon knelt beside him.

‘Do you fear the truth so much, then?’ Archaon asked. He sounded regretful, and confused. You aren’t bound to your path, you just never bothered to look for another, Canto thought, through a haze of agony. Were you too scared? Is that it? Are you afraid, Everchosen? And here I thought I was the coward…

‘Whose truth?’ Canto said, his voice barely a whisper. Archaon twitched, as if struck. The world was going red and black at the edges, and the pain had faded, leaving only a leaden weight on his limbs and heart. Canto closed his eyes. ‘I’ll not be forced to choose between dooms,’ he slurred. ‘Let the gods catch me if they can. I remain true to myself.’

Archaon said something, but Canto couldn’t hear it. He could hear nothing now, save the distant laughter of thirsting gods, and the slow, soft wheeze of the tortoise as it walked on, towards the edge of the world.

Canto ran after it.

Teclis watched Archaon rise to his feet, sword still in his hand. He left the body of the Chaos warrior where it lay, and turned towards his captive. Teclis had not caught everything that had passed between them, but he thought he understood it regardless, and he cursed the warrior, whoever he had been, for not killing Archaon when he’d had the chance. The moment had passed now, and it would take more than a blade in the back to topple the Everchosen from here on out.

‘He was the world’s last hope,’ Archaon said, as he turned towards Teclis. ‘I thought, for a moment, he might… but no matter. The way is clear and my path assured. Let the skies weep and the seas boil. Let us be free, at last, of the hideous weight of life.’

Teclis gathered his legs under him as Archaon strode towards him. ‘Not all of us think it a burden,’ he croaked. Archaon raised his sword and shattered the chains which connected the elf to the dais, as Teclis shied away instinctively. Archaon reached down and grabbed the chains, hauling Teclis upright.

‘I do not care what you think, mage. I care only what you see. Come.’ Archaon dragged Teclis up through the temple, onto the ancient battlements which surrounded the shattered dome. Teclis nearly stumbled and fell many times, but Archaon kept him moving with sharp tugs and cuffs about the head and shoulders. When they reached the open air, Teclis gulped it in, trying to clear his mouth and nose of the taste and smell of the foulness within the defiled temple.

Archaon paused at the top of the battlements. The Everchosen gazed out over the city, watching the play of light and shadow stretch across the ruins. Even from here, Teclis could hear the sounds of battle, and see the smoke. He could hear the boom of guns, and the raucous cries of the orcs. And wasn’t that a surprise, he thought sardonically. It made a strange sort of sense. The Wind of Beasts had gone east and found a suitably bestial host. Appropriate, if unanticipated.

Archaon tugged on the chains. ‘What do you see?’ he rasped.

Teclis looked at him, and a dozen different answers sprang to mind. What should I tell you? That the Incarnates are bound together by bonds of magic, and those same bonds are drawing them here? That it is fate, that it has come down to this, and that even the Ruinous Powers are but children in the hands of destiny? But no. Archaon didn’t want to hear any of that. The question had been rhetorical. The Everchosen was no longer a man, but merely a mechanism… a toy, wound up and set loose by irrational beings.

The elf sniffed. ‘I see the end of all you have planned, and the fall of the Dark Gods.’

Archaon laughed. The sound set Teclis’s gut to churning. ‘Such defiance. Do you not fear me?’ the Everchosen asked. There was no threat there. Only a question.

‘What does it matter?’ Teclis said. He examined the Everchosen, studying the stained armour, the ragged furs and the expressionless helmet. Once, he thought, the man before him could have been something else. There was a whiff of destiny deferred about him. It reminded him of Tyrion, in a way. Archaon could have, once upon a time, become the guiding flame for humanity, leading his folk out of the shadows and into glory.

Instead, he had become nothing more than a black fire, blazing at the heart of a world-consuming inferno. You could have been a hero, Teclis thought, and felt a wave of sadness sweep through him. But you didn’t even try, did you? Did you even have the chance? He shook his head and looked out at the city. ‘My life and death are irrelevant. I have played my part in this sorry affair.’

‘Let me tell you what I see,’ Archaon said, hauling Teclis close. ‘I see a battle already won, and the dying spasms of a world already ended. Whether your allies win or lose, I win. Or were you hoping one of them might turn the tide? Your brother, perhaps?’ Archaon shoved Teclis back.

Teclis fell to his knees on the hard stone. He ignored the pain, and glared up at the Everchosen. So certain, are you? So assured of the outcome that it has blinded you to any other possibility. You made your choice, and you expect the world to fall into line with it. He snorted. You are more like my brother than I thought. ‘Armies are not the only expression of strength. And my brother is not who you should fear. It is the Emperor.’

‘Karl Franz is a weakling. A mortal serving a false god in the name of a nonexistent empire,’ Archaon said. ‘I tore his magic from him, and sent him running.’

Teclis allowed himself a wintry smile. ‘I did not say the Emperor is Karl Franz.’ He looked away, out over the city. He could see the lights of the Incarnates, drawing close. And one in particular attracted his eye. He could feel Archaon’s eyes boring into him. ‘Karl Franz died in Altdorf, at the hands of your servants. He was a man, and he died a man’s death. But an empire must have an emperor, and one came who answered the call.’ He smiled. It had taken some time to puzzle it all out.

‘What are you saying?’ Archaon said.

‘Did you really believe that the Heldenhammer would do nothing while you annihilated all that he built?’ Teclis said. He turned and met Archaon’s black gaze without flinching. ‘Sigmar is coming, Everchosen. Even as he came for your predecessors. And with him, all of the fury and fire of this world which you so casually claim is dying.’

Archaon lashed out with a fist, and knocked Teclis sprawling. ‘Sigmar is a lie,’ he snarled. He grabbed Teclis’s chains and jerked the elf to his feet. ‘He is a lie!’

Teclis grinned through bloody lips. ‘I hope I get to see you tell him that face to face.’

Mannfred cursed loudly and steadily as he stormed out of the Temple of Ulric and flung himself into Ashigaroth’s saddle. The great beast groaned as it flung itself into the air at his barked command. Mannfred snarled uselessly as he flew over the rooftops of the Ulricsmund. It was all going wrong; he could feel it. The wind was shifting, but he couldn’t tell in which direction. This is not as I foresaw, he thought. Victory had seemed so certain, then. Now, there was no certainty save that the end was fast approaching.

When he had arrived in Middenheim a few days earlier, Archaon had readily accepted his offer of fealty, even as he had that of the renegade elf priestess, Hellebron, and, even more surprisingly, Settra the Imperishable. The former king of Khemri was the last individual, living or dead, that Mannfred had expected to see here of all places. He’d thought the ancient liche reduced to dust and scattered across the sands of his beloved Nehekhara, after his refusal to serve Nagash as a mortarch.

The Everchosen had seemed amused by these turncoats more than anything. And the Everchosen’s other champions had wasted no opportunity to remind Mannfred of his new place in the scheme of things. He had been forced to defend himself, and his place in the pecking order, more than once. Such efforts had hardly been worth it, however.

He already regretted coming to Middenheim. This disrespect was the last straw. He would not fight for Archaon. Servitude to a jumped-up barbarian was no less galling than being Nagash’s slave, and he had no taste for either. Let them fight one another. He would keep clear, and be ready to take advantage of what remained.

Ashigaroth hurtled on through the sky, as Mannfred turned his attentions to the battles taking place throughout the city. Somehow, Teclis had managed to drag the Incarnates and their followers to Middenheim, but he had not done so in any organised fashion. Nevertheless, they were moving steadily towards the Temple of Ulric, and Archaon. It would not take them long to smash aside the few obstacles Archaon had set in their path.

Mannfred glanced over his shoulder, back towards the temple. What is your game, Everchosen? Why are you not making a more concentrated effort to stop them? What am I not seeing? Since arriving in the city, he had attempted to uncover the reason for Archaon’s seeming unwillingness to abandon the city. What was so important about Middenheim that Archaon would trap himself here?

Thus far, no answers were forthcoming. Archaon had shared his intent with few beyond his inner circle, most of whom were now dead by the hand of that fool, Canto. Archaon’s executioner was nothing special – just another barbarian. But the others had deferred to him, as if he held some special place in Archaon’s esteem. Mannfred’s lip curled. As if a creature like that could be important.

Ashigaroth screamed and reared in mid-air. Mannfred fought to remain in the saddle as the beast bucked and shrieked. He twisted in the saddle, searching for what had disturbed his mount, and saw the sky over the Grafsmund split open, and spit out something like a falling star. He urged Ashigaroth closer, even as the falling thing slammed into the street and shook the city. Badly battered buildings collapsed all about the circumference of the newly made crater, filling the air with smoke and ruin. Northmen streamed through the streets below him, hurrying to confront the new arrival. Curiosity compelled him to follow suit.

The fallen rubble shifted and slumped as the monstrous form of a bloodthirster rose to its feet. The daemon was badly hurt, its unnatural flesh scorched by fire and marked by dozens of wounds, but it did not lack for strength as it tore its way free of the crater. The charging northmen had stumbled to a halt, and, as Mannfred watched, they sank down to their knees before the bloodthirster. As the smoke cleared, the vampire caught a good look at the beast, and he jerked on Ashigaroth’s reins, pulling his mount up and away. Mannfred had studied the servants of the Dark Gods, and had familiarised himself with such entities as the Fateweaver and the Plaguefather. He knew Khorne’s Huntsman when he saw him, and he wanted to be nowhere near such a ravening engine of destruction.

What the beast was doing here, he could only surmise. Archaon had sent Ka’Bandha to claim the skull of the Emperor – perhaps the daemon had simply followed his prey with the single-minded determination that so characterised the followers of the Blood God. The daemon unleashed a roar fraught with almost tangible frustration, and lashed out with the hammer it clutched in one claw, pulverising a number of the kneeling humans.

Ka’Bandha roared again. The surviving northmen, overcome by the daemon’s bloodlust, threw back their heads as one and unleashed a warbling, communal howl. As the daemon strode away, the northmen followed, running on all fours as often as on two legs.

Mannfred shook himself. While he was immune to the daemon’s presence, even he could feel the heat of the creature’s rage. He urged Ashigaroth away, towards the Palast District. The more distance he put between himself and the daemon, the better. As he passed over the blood-soaked ruin Hellebron’s cultists had made of the Middenplatz, a flash of movement below caught his attention. Something black, streaking across a rooftop.

Mannfred blinked. Vlad, he thought. So, you’ve come as well. I thought you were smarter than that. Then, you could never resist a grand moment, could you? He urged Ashigaroth in pursuit, and loosened his sword in its sheath. There was little chance, given the powers involved, that he could sway the battle one way or another. The thought galled him, but he was pragmatic enough to admit when he was outmatched. But he could accomplish at least one thing in the meantime.

Nagash should never have brought you back, old man, he thought. And I’ll see you sent back into the dark before this world ends. Mannfred smiled cruelly as he hurtled in pursuit of the other vampire. Whatever else happened, whatever fate awaited Mannfred or the world he’d sought to claim, Vlad von Carstein would die.

SEVENTEEN

Malekith cursed as the eastern flank of his forces began to buckle beneath the weight of the orc assault. The ruins shook with savage cries as the greenskins barrelled through the thinning ranks of the fleeing skaven and crashed into the elves. The elves fought with all of the discipline and fury of their race, but they could not match the pure, bestial ferocity of the newcomers. He tugged on Seraphon’s reins, drawing the dragon through the air towards the collapsing lines. Below him, elves on horseback galloped to bolster the flagging flank.

He couldn’t say where the greenskins had come from, nor did he particularly care. That they were here now and attacking his forces was all that was important. It had all been going so well. The skaven had been driven before them, fleeing like the rodents they were. But even as the elves had pressed forwards, the orcs had been lured onto a collision course with Malekith’s forces. He could see the cunning pattern now – the ratkin had ever been willing to sacrifice thousands of their own kind in order to secure a minor victory. He cursed himself for not being more wary. Now he had a more persistent foe to contend with, and he knew, though he could not see them through the fog of war, that the skaven were likely regrouping. They would not have led both armies here, if they did not have some–

The thud of jezzail shots and the crackle of warp-lightning cannons interrupted his thoughts, and confirmed his suspicions. Seraphon caught an updraught and reared to hover in the air as, below, jezzail-shot thudded into the melee, gouging bloody trails of dead and wounded through the press of battle. Poisoned wind mortar shells burst open along his lines, claiming the lives of many elves, including the fierce corsairs of the Krakensides.

Of course, he thought. Why draw one foe into a trap, when you can draw two? Cunning vermin. Malekith snarled in frustration and jabbed his spurs into Seraphon’s scales, urging the dragon on.

With a shriek, the great beast undulated through the air, eastwards, in search of the hidden skaven positions. Malekith hunkered low in his saddle as green lightning arced from a crumbled second-storey archway, and at his command, Seraphon tucked its wings and plummeted towards the ruins like a diving falcon. The black dragon smashed into the ruins hard enough to shower the streets below with debris, and its head snaked forwards, jaws agape. Thick, black smoke spewed from its maw, and filled the ruin. Dying skaven staggered into view, collapsing even as they tried vainly to escape the noxious poison.

Malekith summoned flames of shadow and sent them roaring into the depths of the ruin, searing those skaven whom Seraphon’s breath had not reached. He laughed as the vermin burned, and longed to do the same to the whole city. Let it all burn, and be lost to darkness, so that the enemy might know the futility of standing against the Eternity King.

He heard a squeal from above him, and twisted in his saddle. Shapes dropped towards him from the upper reaches of the ruin, wielding curved blades that glistened with poison. Even as he raised his blade, he knew that he would not be able to stop every blow.

Something flashed in the dark, and spun past him. Several of the assassins went limp, like puppets with their strings cut, and smashed into the ground below. The remaining skaven landed on Seraphon’s back and leapt towards him, only to die with his sword in its skull. As he swept the twitching carcass away from him, he turned to see a dwarf axe embedded in the stonework nearby. Whoever had thrown it had done so with consummate skill, killing two assassins in mid-air with a single throw.

‘You never were any good at watching your back, were you?’ a rough voice rumbled, from somewhere nearby. Malekith froze. He recognised the voice, though he had not heard it in millennia. Not since those dim, distant days before elf and dwarf had discarded all oaths of friendship, and gone to war. ‘Just as well I was passing through.’ He caught a glimpse of gleaming armour and a flash of white beard, and felt his heart lurch in memory of a pain he’d thought long forgotten.

‘Snorri,’ Malekith whispered. ‘My friend – I…’

But the speaker, whoever they had been, was gone. He turned and saw that the axe was gone as well, as if it had never been. Malekith shook his head. He knew the legends, and had heard the stories from the lips of slaves and captives, but he had never believed… not until now. He smiled. Go in peace, my friend, and meet your doom as is fitting.

Even as the eastern knot of skaven guns fell silent, so too did those situated to the south. Malekith pushed aside old memories and regrets as he peered into the darkness and glimpsed the glint of golden murder-masks there – the Chaindancers had found new prey. Malekith’s smile turned cruel as he heard the screams of the ratkin, and silently wished the sisters of slaughter luck in their hunt. ‘Such hubris these vermin display, to believe that we are prey, eh, Seraphon?’ he murmured, as he gave the dragon’s reins a tug. The beast flung itself back into the air, wings pumping.

As he passed over the heaving sprawl of battle, a dull ache began to grow in his skull. It was a familiar sensation – the tug of strong magics, of the great winds of the Vortex striving against one another. He felt it most strongly when another Incarnate was close by. He peered down, and saw a war-hydra fall, its coils split by the bite of a crude axe. A burly figure bounded through the writhing death-spasms of the beast, and crashed into the close-packed ranks of the Phoenix Guard. Amber energy sparked and snarled around the orc, as if the creature were the eye of a storm.

‘The eighth wind,’ Malekith hissed. And bound to the body of a brute at that. Suddenly, the presence of the orcs made sense – this was Teclis’s fault. Much like everything else, he thought sourly. And like everything else, it is up to me to see to the rectification of this colossal blunder. The orcs were uncontrollable, and filled with the power of Ghur. They would ruin whatever slight chance of victory the Incarnates possessed.

‘No, best to let the Wind of Beasts seek out a more fitting host,’ he said, as he urged Seraphon into another dive. ‘Once we have freed it from its current shoddy shell, of course.’ The dragon roared, as if in reply, and dived down towards the orc warlord.

Improbably, the brute ducked beneath Seraphon’s grasping talons. Malekith cursed as the dragon turned, jaws wide. The orc whirled and charged towards them, axe raised. The dragon spewed poison smoke, but the orc plunged through it heedlessly. Malekith blinked in shock, as the orc suddenly bounded from the cloud of poison and crashed down onto Seraphon’s spined skull. Before the dragon could do more than issue a startled snarl, the orc was scrambling up Seraphon’s ridged neck, towards the Eternity King.

The orc was even more monstrous up close, Malekith thought, even as he drew his blade to block a blow from that lethal axe. One eye blazed fiercely from a green, scowling face pitted with scars. The black armour was tarnished and piecemeal, but sturdy, and the orc’s arms bulged with thick knots of muscle. There was a flare of light as their blades met, and Malekith grunted in pain as the force of the blow jarred his arm. The orc was strong; far stronger than he’d assumed. ‘Grimgor is gonna gut ya,’ the orc snarled, spraying spittle all over Malekith. ‘Gonna rip out yer spine and beat ya to death wit’ it. Gonna squish yer heart like it were a squig, and suck it dry!’

‘You’ll do nothing except scream, brute,’ the Eternity King hissed. Malekith’s hand snapped out, the clawed tips of his gauntlet sinking into the orc’s arm, eliciting a bellow of pain. The orc rocked and his broad skull slammed into the faceplate of Malekith’s helm, almost buckling it. Nearly jarred from his saddle, and dazed by the blow, Malekith slumped back, releasing his hold on the orc. The creature grinned and hefted his axe for a killing blow, but a sudden undulation from Seraphon as the dragon launched itself back into the air sent the brute tumbling away, back to the street below.

Before Malekith could attempt to spot where his foe had landed, a great chittering shriek rose from the north, and he turned to see a host of armoured skaven ploughing through the ruins of a burnt-out guildhouse, straight towards his already embattled forces. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘No more of this foolishness.’ Even as he spoke, however, the sound of more orcs arriving reached him. Hundreds of orcs were spilling through the rubble of storehouses and shops, an unyielding wave of green violence, seeking to sweep his embattled forces from the field. Giants and ogres lumbered amongst them, and squealing, snorting boar riders careened through the streets ahead of the rest.

His host was caught in the jaws of a trap, and there would be no escape. Not through force at any rate. His elves were too few, and even his own power, great as it was, could not prevail over so many enemies. Is this it, then? Is this my fate – our fate? To be drowned in violence by uncomprehending savages or cowardly vermin? Am I to preside over ignominious defeat? Is that to be my legacy? he wondered, as his heart sank and his warriors died.

No. No, this was not his fate. He had struggled too hard, fought too long to give it all up now due to the error of another. He was Malekith. He was supreme. He had survived the Flame of Asuryan not once but twice, and forged two nations in his lifetime. He had beaten daemons, and matched his will to that of the Dark Gods themselves and emerged whole and triumphant.

But there had ever been one common element to his victories. One foe that had to be defeated first, in every case. Pride, damnable pride. It was pride that drove him; he knew it and accepted it. It was pride that lent him strength, and pride too which had endangered his every plan and scheme. Pride told him that he needed no aid; pride murmured that he could find a more fitting host for the Winds of Death and Beasts; pride demanded that he fight to the last, against those he deemed inferior.

And it was with a single twist of his limbs that Malekith dashed pride to the ground, and dropped from Seraphon’s saddle. He landed lightly, despite the weight of his armour, borne to the street by coiling shadows. The orc still lived, and was hacking his way through the Phoenix Guard with a single-minded determination that put Malekith in mind of Tyrion. Brutes of a feather, he thought, as he strode towards his opponent.

The orc roared as he caught sight of Malekith. Several of his followers made as if to charge the Eternity King, but the orc cut them down without hesitation. Malekith smiled. The beast would allow no other to claim his victory. Pride is not the sole province of Asuryan’s children, he thought as he drew close to the rampaging orc. Amber light sparked and snarled about the orc warlord, illuminating him with a pale glow.

Well, now to see whether I am right… or dead, Malekith mused, as he swiftly sank down to one knee, bowed his head, and extended his sword hilt-first towards his opponent. ‘I yield,’ he said, loudly.

The orc, axe raised over his blunt skull, blinked. Malekith said, ‘I yield, in my name, and in that of the elven race. We are your servants.’

The orc hesitated for a moment. Then a slow, cruel snarl of triumph spread across his features. The orc raised his axe and turned towards his brawling followers. ‘Grimgor is da best!’ he bellowed. He pounded his chest with a closed fist, and his followers added their voices to his victorious roar.

‘No,’ Malekith said.

The orc whirled about. ‘What?’ the brute growled.

Malekith matched the beast’s gimlet stare with one of his own. ‘I – we came to this city to defeat one who claims that title for himself.’ He flung a hand out to indicate the skaven. ‘They serve him, as do the northmen. They say he is the best, the strongest warrior in the world. So strong that he intends to crack it, and drown what’s left in fire.’ Malekith inclined his head. ‘How can Grimgor be the best, if Archaon kills the world?’

‘Archaon,’ Grimgor rumbled, drawing the Everchosen’s name out like a curse. Amber sparks danced in the brute’s good eye. The beast turned north, towards the Temple of Ulric. ‘Archaon… thinks he’s better than me?’

‘I doubt that he thinks of you at all,’ Malekith said.

‘Take me to him,’ Grimgor snarled, shoving the flat of his axe beneath Malekith’s chin. ‘I’m gonna bash ’im, and then I’m gonna stomp ’im, and then we’ll see who’s best.’

‘It would be my pleasure,’ Malekith murmured, rising to his feet. Grimgor snorted and turned. At a single bellow, his orcs began to flow around the elves, and towards the skaven. Malekith could almost admire the iron control the beast had over his simple-minded followers. But he still intended to plant his sword between the brute’s shoulder blades once the day was won. He’d sacrificed his pride on the altar of necessity, but that didn’t mean that matters between them were resolved.

I hope you survive what’s coming, beast. If only so you can witness my supremacy first-hand, when your services are no longer required…

Arkhan the Black pinned the northman to the ground with a sweep of his staff, and watched disinterestedly as the savage convulsed and withered to a lifeless husk. It joined the others that surrounded him in an ever expanding ring of death, and he paid the body no more notice. It wasn’t even worth raising to fight anew.

From around him rose the clangour of battle, as barrow-blade crashed against ensorcelled steel in a monotonous rhythm. Nearby, the wights of the Doomed Legion fought against the black-armoured reavers of the Wastes, both sides trampling the bodies of Kurgan and northmen beneath their heavy treads. With a gesture, Arkhan re-knit broken bones and rebound wicked spirits to their mouldering bodies, dragging those wights who had fallen back to their feet to rejoin the fight.

The sky had gone from red to black, and squirmed like a carcass full of maggots. The few remaining trees in the Great Park had been set alight by witch-fires as the battle surged back and forth. The living had been joined by a cavalcade of daemons – graceful, dancing shapes which moved with impossible quickness across the field. One such bounded towards Arkhan, her lilting song playing across the grave-whisper of his thoughts. Faces flashed in his mind’s eye – Morgiana, Neferata, others, women he had loved and lost in his sorry life – but he ignored them easily enough. His will was not his own, and could not be broken so lightly. The vast, black bulwark of Nagash’s thoughts steadied his own, and he interposed his staff as the daemonette’s claws snapped shut inches from his skull.

The daemon hissed at him and he twisted to the side, throwing the androgynous creature to the ground. Before it could rise, he had drawn his barrow-blade and severed its head from its neck. He turned, blade still in hand, and scanned the park. Wailing spirits hurtled through the ashen air to the south, ripping the life from Kurgan warriors, even as the latter fought on beneath their skull-topped banners against a lurching, fire-blistered horde of zombies. He heard a rasping roar, and turned to see Krell’s axe crash down on the mirrored shield of a creature he recognised as Sigvald the Magnificent. Arkhan had only crossed paths with the Geld-Prince once before, in Araby, but he knew that the Chaos champion was a deadly opponent, despite being a preening brat.

Arkhan extended his staff, unleashing a crackling amethyst hurricane of death-magics at the daemonettes who capered past Sigvald and Krell, unbinding them and reducing them to motes of glittering dust. Through the cloud, he saw Sigvald driven back by Krell’s whirling blows, each of which bled seamlessly into the next.

Again and again, Sigvald lunged at Krell, his flickering blade skittering across Krell’s ancient armour, but the wight gave no ground, and continued to drive his opponent before him. Krell launched a wide blow, meant to decapitate Sigvald, but the Geld-Prince ducked beneath it. The blow shattered the scorched husk of a tree, showering both warriors with cinders and ash. Sigvald lunged, and his sword punched through Krell’s breastplate with a screech of metal and a puff of dust.

Krell staggered back, a dry, death-rattle laugh echoing from his fleshless jaws. He pivoted, wrenching the sword from Sigvald’s grip, and backhanded him, sending the Chaos champion flying backwards. Arkhan nodded in satisfaction. All was as it should be.

Suddenly, a throaty roar split the cacophony of battle. Arkhan looked towards the overlook of the park and saw a vast, lumpen silhouette clamber over the hill. A tattered red cloak flapped about the beast’s shoulders, and a tarnished crown pulsed strangely on its brow. Arkhan raised his staff warily. This creature too he recognised, though he had never before laid eyes on it. Arkhan had heard the stories from his agents in the north, of Throgg and his ice-palace in the ruins of Praag. Of the capture of sorcerers and mages of all races and descriptions; of Throgg’s obsessions, and his fall at the hands of a one-eyed dwarf. It seems that fall was not so long as one might hope, Arkhan thought.

For now, it seemed as if the Wintertooth, the so-called King of the Trolls, had come to Middenheim, and he had not come alone. Trolls, giants and mutants of the northlands flooded down the overlook, smashing into both the dead and the living without regard to whether they were friend or foe. Feral minotaurs slaughtered Kurgan warriors as the ghorgons of the Drakwald tore through the massed ranks of zombies.

Arkhan wove spells of strength and recovery with all the speed his dead limbs could muster, trying to hold the army of corpses together. He could feel Nagash’s displeasure ripple through him, and with a twitch of his staff he summoned the surviving morghasts from the angry skies. The osseous constructs hurtled down like birds of prey, their spirit-bound blades chopping into bestial flesh. But for every dozen brutes and beasts that fell, a morghast was pulled down from the sky, to be hacked apart or torn limb from limb.

Though it took almost every iota of concentration he could muster to reform the destroyed constructs and fling them into battle once more, Arkhan kept one eye on the duel between Krell and Sigvald. If the wight could manage to dispatch the champion, it might tear all heart from the surviving Kurgan and put them to flight. With them out of the way, the beasts would be easy prey. Or so he hoped.

That hope, however, proved to be in vain. Arkhan watched, disconcerted, as Sigvald lunged to retrieve his sword, still stuck in Krell’s chest, and Krell’s axe whistled down to shatter the mirror-shield the man held. Sigvald staggered back, sword in hand, face bloody. The axe had bifurcated the shield and gashed the Geld-Prince’s handsome features, reducing one side of his face to a ruin. Sigvald clapped a hand to his mangled flesh and wailed like a dying cat. The champion lunged, still shrieking, and launched blow after blow at Krell.

Krell staggered back beneath the rain of wild blows. His axe lashed out in reply, scarring Sigvald’s gleaming cuirass or scoring his flesh, but the Geld-Prince was too far gone to feel the blows, Arkhan realised. The two warriors whirled and clashed through the melee, smashing down any creature, living, dead or otherwise, unlucky enough to get between them. Arkhan considered lending Krell aid, but dismissed the idea even as it occurred to him. He had his own battle to fight – a roaring giant stretched a wide hand towards him, as if to scoop him up. Arkhan ducked under the grasping fingers and lashed out with his sword, slicing through the creature’s wrist. The giant howled and retracted its limb, as Arkhan thrust his staff out and spat a killing word. The great beast staggered as its mighty frame began to shrivel and sag. It turned to dust even as it fell.

Arkhan heard a crash and spun. Sigvald, broken sword in hand, had borne Krell to the ground. One of the wight’s arms was missing, and as Arkhan watched, Sigvald braced his knee against the other, pinning Krell. The champion was howling unintelligibly as he battered at the wight with his broken sword and bleeding fists. Krell’s armour crumpled beneath the maddened Geld-Prince’s blows, and Arkhan could feel the wight’s spirit slipping loose from its husk. He took a step towards them, but found his path blocked by a massive shape.

Throgg roared and smashed his club down, narrowly missing Arkhan. The troll-king wrenched his weapon up, scattering cobblestones, and swung it again. Arkhan twisted aside and hacked a bloody trench in the troll’s side. Throgg staggered, clapping a hand to the steaming wound. His club found Arkhan’s hip, pulverising the bone. Arkhan stumbled, and it was only thanks to his staff that he stayed upright. He dragged himself out of reach as his bones re-knit, but Throgg didn’t follow. Instead, the troll seemed captivated by Sigvald and Krell’s confrontation.

Arkhan shuddered as he heard the fading scream of Krell’s ancient, black soul, and he glanced over his shoulder. Sigvald sat back on his heels, panting and bloody-faced, staring blindly down at the shattered remains of Krell. The Geld-Prince threw back his head and screamed, though whether in triumph or in mourning for his ruined features, Arkhan couldn’t say. Regardless, the scream was cut short a moment later by Throgg, who split Sigvald’s head open with his club, dashing his brains across Krell’s carcass.

Throgg turned, a smile on his grotesque features. ‘He was a fool, and a wastrel,’ the troll rumbled. Arkhan was startled by the troll’s voice. It was not that of a beast, but of a man. A man in agony. For a brief moment, Arkhan felt a strange kinship with the creature – they were both but pawns in the designs of others, their own hopes and dreams but sparks lost in the grand conflagrations of those they served.

‘And you are neither, I suppose,’ Arkhan rasped.

‘No. The gods sent me here to die on your sword, so that my body might tangle your feet and delay you,’ Throgg said. He looked around. More bellowing creatures – monsters of all shapes and sizes – spilled down from the overlook with every passing moment. What was left of the Doomed Legion was already being swept away, and only the southern stretch of the Great Park was still firmly in the hands of the dead. The battle was going badly, Arkhan knew. He could feel Nagash’s growing frustration, and the heavy tread of his approach.

‘A TASK FOR WHICH YOU AND YOUR HORDE ARE SINGULARLY WELL SUITED, APE,’ Nagash said, as he stepped over the burning carcass of a chimera. Blood stained his robes and armour, but the nine books still thrashed and snapped at the ends of their chains, and his captive spirits still wailed. ‘BUT I HAVE NO TIME FOR SUCH DISTRACTIONS. I HAVE GODS TO SLAY.’

Throgg hefted his club. ‘Make time, carrion-bird,’ he roared. ‘I have been denied an empire, but I will not be denied victory.’ The troll surged forwards, brushing Arkhan aside as if the liche were no more substantial than a spider-web. ‘I will wear your skull as an amulet, and the gods will grant me all that I wish!’

Nagash’s great blade looped around, and chopped through the club. Throgg lurched to the side, off balance, and Nagash’s free hand snapped forwards, talons digging into the troll’s throat. Nagash dragged the troll close. ‘THE GODS GRANT NOTHING YOU DID NOT ALREADY POSSESS, FOOL. THEY ARE LIARS AND THIEVES. I WILL DRAG THEM SCREAMING FROM THEIR NIGHTMARE WOMB AND FLAY THEIR SECRETS FROM THEM. SERVE ME, AND I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THAT YOU MIGHT DESIRE.’

Throgg pounded uselessly on Nagash’s arm, trying to break his grip. The troll glared at Nagash. ‘Better death,’ he snarled, in his almost-human voice. ‘Better death than service to such as you. The gods might raise us up, or dash us down, but there is a chance there, at least. There is no hope, not in you.’

‘AS YOU WISH,’ Nagash intoned. His great blade, death-energy writhing along its length, plunged down, through the troll’s thick shoulder and into his torso. Throgg screamed and sank down, clawing at Nagash’s robes. The Undying King held the sword in place, and the magics in that fell blade did their work, chewing through the troll’s mutated body like acid. Throgg collapsed slowly, falling in on himself, until there remained only a pile of char and ash, and a tarnished crown, which rolled slowly away across the cobbles to fall flat at Arkhan’s feet.

‘And thus do the unworthy fall,’ a voice as dry as the desert sands rasped. Arkhan looked up from the crown, and turned. A familiar form, ancient bones shrouded in tattered ceremonial wrappings and broken armour, stepped towards them, khopesh in hand. ‘Will you join him in oblivion, Usurper?’

‘SETTRA,’ Nagash said.

‘I have walked across half of this world to find you, Usurper. You broke me and scattered me, but Settra is deathless. Settra is eternal. And so Settra returned, and now he stands here, sword in hand, and he denies you, Usurper. He stands between you and triumph,’ Settra croaked. He lifted his khopesh and pointed it at Nagash, who regarded him as if he were less a threat than a curiosity.

‘I DID NOT BRING YOU BACK, LITTLE KING,’ Nagash said.

‘No,’ Settra said. ‘You did not.’ The khopesh dipped. ‘They did. The jackals of the smokeless fire, the howlers in the Wastes. They dared to offer Settra aid.’

‘HOW FOOLISH OF THEM,’ Nagash said.

‘They offered Settra victories, and empires and life unending.’

‘AND WHAT DID THEY ASK IN RETURN, LITTLE KING?’

‘That I serve them and kill you.’ Settra looked down at the remains of Throgg, and then, quicker than Arkhan could follow, lunged. Nagash lurched aside, but Arkhan realised that Settra had not been aiming for the Incarnate of Death. Instead, the ancient king’s blade chopped into the scaly torso of the dragon ogre which had been preparing to smash its enormous axe down on the back of Nagash’s skull. The beast roared in agony, but Settra did not give it time to recover. He tore his blade free and slashed upwards, separating the monster’s head from its shoulders. It toppled over like a felled tree, and Settra turned.

He extended his khopesh towards Nagash. ‘Settra does not serve. Settra rules.’ He strode past them, towards the horde of monsters. ‘Go, prince of Khemri. Settra will forgive your trespasses if you but make the jackals howl. Teach them that the kings of the Great Land cannot be bought and sold like slaves. And then, when it is done, Settra shall take your head, and take back his people.’

As the last words left his mouth, Settra the Imperishable broke into a run, slashing out at a snarling giant even as the great beast reached down for him. His khopesh removed its fingers, and then its lower jaw in rapid succession. A moment later, he was lost to Arkhan’s sight as he plunged into the heart of the battle.

Arkhan looked up at Nagash. The Undying King gazed in the direction Settra had vanished for a moment longer, as if bemused. Then he turned to look down at Arkhan. ‘MY SERVANT,’ he said.

‘What would you have me do, master?’

‘I MUST REACH THE ARTEFACT, OR ALL IS FOR NAUGHT. TAKE TWO HOSTS OF THE MORGHASTS AND HOLD HERE, UNTIL YOUR LAST STRENGTH IS GONE. DO NOT FAIL ME.’

Arkhan didn’t flinch. He had fallen before, as had Krell. It was never the end. No matter how often he wished it were so. Settra’s reappearance was proof enough of that. And Nagash was right. They could not break away from the enemy here. Even though Throgg was dead, and Sigvald too, their foes were too numerous and too far gone in their bloodlust to be so easily shifted, even by one as mighty as Settra. For Nagash to make his escape, someone would have to stay behind and keep the remaining Kurgan and the monstrous horde occupied. And since Krell was no more, that left him. ‘Yes, master. Do you have any further commands?’

Nagash hesitated. And for the first time, Arkhan the Black felt a flicker of hope. He had never known the Great Necromancer to hesitate, even in the face of defeat. It was as if, for the first time in centuries, the Undying King was uncertain of the ultimate outcome. Nagash looked down at him and said, finally, ‘DIE WELL, MY SERVANT.’

Then Nagash stalked south, leaving Arkhan to face the enemy alone. Arkhan turned away, and set his staff. The remnants of Throgg’s army that weren’t currently being occupied by Settra rampaged towards him, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Arkhan tightened his grip on his sword, and thought of a long-forgotten alleyway, where he’d first set his feet on the path to eternal servitude. A path that had, at long last, reached its end.

He thought of the feeling of sand across his cheeks, and the smell of Cathayan spices on a sea breeze. He could taste blood, and the black leaf, and the kisses of a queen. He looked down at his fleshless hand, clasped about the hilt of his sword, and then up, at the crawling sky.

If Arkhan the Black had been capable of smiling, he would have.

‘Fire!’ Gotri Hammerson roared, chopping the air with his axe. The ensuing volley punched through the ranks of the beastmen, dropping many. The rest came on, braying coarse-tongued battle cries as they charged heedlessly into the dwarf shield-wall. ‘Ironbreakers – to the fore!’ Hammerson bellowed, as he signalled for the Thunderers to retreat.

The Ironbreakers, clad in gromril and bearing runic shields, stumped forward, accompanied by Balthasar Gelt, as the dwarf line fell back around them. The Incarnate of Metal planted his staff, and the runes inscribed on the ancient armour of the dwarfs glowed with power. A moment later, the beastmen crashed into them, hacking at flesh and armour with frenzied abandon. The dwarfs held firm, and soon the last of the creatures was slumping into the dust or scattering in flight. Hammerson caught Gelt’s eye, and nodded sharply.

They had come to the aid of the elves, but almost too late. Alarielle’s forces were outnumbered and surrounded by an ever-expanding ring of foes. And unlike the beastmen, these didn’t look as if the thought of dwarf bullets filled them with much dread. Witch elves, howling blood cultists, and daemons swirled about Alarielle’s elves and tree-spirits, and only where Durthu and the remaining treemen fought was the battle not going badly.

Hammerson knew that wasn’t going to last. He could see a massive cauldron-shrine grinding slowly across the plaza towards Alarielle, and perched atop it, the fugitive Blood Queen, Hellebron. The wiry witch elf spat and railed, issuing orders and threats in a voice twisted by madness. She clashed her blades and gesticulated wildly, as if overcome by the same frenzy which possessed her followers. He’d heard that she had fled Athel Loren before the arrival of the refugees from Averheim, and had learned enough about her proclivities to know that she meant Alarielle ill.

‘We must rescue her,’ Gelt said, as he hurried towards Hammerson. His golden mask was dented and tarnished, but his eyes glowed with power. ‘If Alarielle falls, so too will the world,’ he continued. He gestured with his staff towards the cauldron-shrine, as its heavy wheels ground over the broken dead and laughing witch elves came leaping in its wake.

‘Aye,’ Hammerson grunted. ‘I have eyes, lad. I know.’ He raised his axe. ‘Zhufbarak – shield-march,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go give the tree-huggers a hand, lads.’ The Ironbreakers locked shields and started forwards, as the clansmen and Thunderers followed suit. A dwarf throng on the march was akin to one of the Empire’s steam tanks, capable of rolling over almost any enemy. Clansmen on the flanks used their shields to provide cover for the Thunderers, who unleashed volley after volley, reloading as they moved. The Ironbreakers formed the wedge, smashing aside any enemy who sought to stand in the throng’s path. And there were plenty of those. Hammerson and Gelt took the point of the wedge for themselves, unleashing their respective magics on the foe.

Hang on woman, we’re coming, he thought, as he summoned runes of fire and swept aside a shrieking witch elf. Not that I have any clue how to help you, when we get there. Or if you’ll even live that long, with the way you’re looking…

From his few glimpses of her, as she fought in the shadow of Durthu, the Everqueen looked less radiant than cadaverous. It was as if she had aged centuries in moments, and her movements were faltering. Nonetheless, she fought on, her magics reaching out to snare and break the enemy at every turn. Hammerson had no real fondness for the elves, but he knew bravery when he saw it. And he was determined not to let it be in vain.

The Zhufbarak throng advanced at a glacier’s pace, with all the relentless inexorability that implied. Salvoes thundered forth, flinging bodies into the air and throwing the already anarchic ranks of the enemy into complete disarray. The great, coiling war-horns of Zhufbar groaned so loudly as to shake the rubble, and where bullets and steam did not reach, axes and hammers served to split Hellebron’s host in two.

At a gesture from Gelt, golden light danced across the weapons of the dwarfs, awakening the full power of the ancestral runes. Gromril armour flared and shone like the stars that had once shone in the skies above as it was struck by enemy blows. Hammerson raised his axe and gestured east. With his other hand, he motioned west. The dwarf shield-wall split with perfect synchronicity, and two lines of clan warriors turned outwards around a hinge composed of a doughty core of Ironbreakers, one to the east, the other to the west. Hammerson gestured to Gelt. ‘Take the west, lad. I’ll see to the east,’ he growled. ‘Let the enemy break themselves on good dwarf steel. Give the elgi a chance to catch their breath. We’ll collapse the wall when we’ve earned some space, and squeeze the enemy between us, like grist beneath a millstone.’

Hammerson watched Gelt go, and then turned to study the turmoil they had wrought in their wake. He grunted in satisfaction as he saw that their intervention had destroyed any momentum the enemy possessed. They’d cut Hellebron’s forces in two, with the Blood Queen herself caught on the wrong side of the shield-wall and trapped between dwarfs and elves. Then, that didn’t seem to bother her all that much. She was exhorting her followers to greater efforts, ranting and shrieking loudly enough to wake the dead. The elves would have to hold out until the dwarfs could fall back to their position.

Hammerson glanced back at Alarielle. I hope you can handle her, woman, because we’ve got our hands full, he thought. A thunderclap shook the Palast and rattled his teeth in his jaw, and he turned to see the followers of the Blood God slam into the western shield-wall. Axe-blades chopped over shield rims or hooked dwarf legs, and the wall wavered, but only for an instant. Rune-axes carved red, efficient arcs through the packed ranks of the enemy, as the Zhufbarak gave their foes their fill and more of skulls and blood.

‘Hold them, lad,’ Hammerson growled. He looked around at his warriors, as they strained against the enemy. ‘And you, you great wattocks… that goes for you as well!’ he roared, clashing his weapons together. ‘Hold!’

The ancient treeman gave a cry, like the splintering of a great oak, and collapsed. Alarielle whipped around, the pain of the world’s dying a drumbeat in her temples, and stared in shock as Skarana, eldest of the oldest, toppled down into death. The bloodthirster roared in triumph and ripped its axe free of the treeman’s body, scattering charred splinters across the heads of the wailing dryads which flung themselves on the daemon’s followers. The daemon charged towards her and Durthu, wings flared, arms wide, as if inviting them to meet it in battle. She could feel her protector stiffen in anticipation, and then relax.

Durthu would not leave her side willingly. Not while only a thin wall of spears separated her from Hellebron’s maddened servants. The treeman did not trust the dwarfs to reach her in time. But he was the only one among them strong enough to dispatch the daemon even now charging towards them. She placed a hand on the rough bark of his wrist. Durthu was the greatest of Athel Loren’s children. In his mighty frame was the strength of the forest itself, and the blade he carried had been forged by the gods.

‘Go,’ Alarielle said. Durthu looked down at her, silently. Alarielle frowned. ‘Go, Durthu. Go begrudgingly, or willingly, but go. Do as I command. I will be here when you return.’ Durthu reached out, and brushed a lock of hair from her face. Then, with a sound like an avalanche, the treeman turned and strode to meet the daemon.

Durthu picked up speed as he moved past the spear-wall of the defenders, and his great root-feet trampled the enemy as he charged towards the approaching daemon, his massive blade held out behind him. He reached out with his free hand, and roared with all the fury of Athel Loren as he smashed into the bloodthirster, sending the daemon staggering sideways into the Middenplatz wall. There was a crackle of snapping bone as the force of the impact shattered the daemon’s wings, and the beast howled in agony.

Durthu didn’t slacken his assault. Even as the bloodthirster tried to rise, the treeman swung his Daith-forged blade up and drove it down through his opponent’s breastplate and into the unnatural flesh beneath. The bloodthirster shrieked and grasped the blade. It hauled itself up and smashed at Durthu with its axe, hacking deep grooves into the treeman’s bark. Durthu ignored the frenzied assault and twisted around, wrenching his blade free of the bloodthirster’s chest. Without pausing, he whirled about, bringing the sword about to chop clean through the daemon’s thick neck.

The treeman stepped aside as the daemon collapsed, but Alarielle did not see what happened next. Her attentions were dragged back to her own predicament, as one of her warriors gave a shout. Alarielle grimaced as the corpse impaled on the woman’s spear abruptly flopped into motion and pulled itself off the point of the weapon. Others began to rise as well, slipping and sliding in their own blood as they struggled upright. Alarielle hissed in pain as the Winds of Life recoiled from the abomination taking place before her. She raised her hand, ready to sweep the risen dead aside with her magics before they could attack, when a sudden shout stayed her hand. A familiar form had dropped from the Middenplatz wall and into the battle, laying about him with a deadly blade.

‘Take heart, dear lady,’ Vlad von Carstein called out as he sprinted past her warriors, accompanied by the staggering forms of the newly slain, who stumbled in his wake. ‘Your champions are legion, be they man, dwarf or heroic tree-stump. Your burying place is not here, and not today. So swears Vlad von Carstein, Elector of Sylvania,’ he shouted, flinging himself into battle like a dark thunderbolt. Where he moved, the enemy fell, only to rise again at his command. With every corpse that rose, a jagged thorn of pain cut into her heart. But those pains were but pinpricks compared to the agony she felt with every breath. The world itself was coming undone, collapsing in on itself like a rotten tree, and she could feel the sharp ache of the artefact Archaon was employing to accomplish the unmaking.

The vampire slithered into the heart of the ranks of the bloodthirster’s followers, his sword flickering like lightning. He employed finesse and brutality in equal measure, and moved with such grace that Alarielle thought even Tyrion might have looked upon him with envy. He employed the risen dead like ambulatory shields, using them to create opportunities for his kills. She shook her head, grateful and disturbed in equal measure, and turned her attentions to her own battle.

Despite the aid of the dead and the dwarfs, Hellebron’s forces had reached the ring of dryads who protected Alarielle, sacrificing their lives to keep her safe. She felt every death, every mangling blow that afflicted the tree-spirits, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet. She watched in dull-eyed horror as dryads flung themselves up the iron stairs of the cauldron-shrine that steadily bore down on her. The spirits attacked Hellebron, who hacked them down with shrieks of laughter. Alarielle closed her eyes. She felt every blow, and her body shuddered as each spirit fell. Hellebron bounded off the cauldron, her lithe shape covered in blood and sap. ‘I see you, queen of weeds and maggots,’ she screeched, gesturing with one of her cruelly curved blades. ‘I see you, and I will wear your pretty skin as a cloak.’ She darted forwards, and two of Alarielle’s guards moved to intercept her. Without slowing, Hellebron swept her blades out and removed their heads.

Alarielle stepped up. Her asrai fell back at her command, clearing a path. She wanted no more of them to die in a futile attempt to stop the Blood Queen. Hellebron danced towards her, grinning madly, and Alarielle wondered how it had come to this. What had set the Blood Queen on this course? She had come to Athel Loren with Malekith and the others, but her loyalty to her people had faded like a morning mist, leaving only this… thing which now capered and shrieked at her in challenge. A challenge that she would meet, though she was no warrior. Though she had learned blade-craft from the finest warriors in Ulthuan, the Everqueen was a creature of peace, rather than war, and even with the power of Life Incarnate, she was little match for the former ruler of Har Ganeth.

‘We looked for you,’ Alarielle said, ‘after Be’lakor’s attack on the Oak of Ages. We thought you had been slain.’ She waited for Hellebron, trying to conserve her strength.

‘That would have pleased you to no end, I’m certain,’ Hellebron cackled. She pulled the edges of her blades across each other, filling the air with their shriek.

‘If you think that, then you are truly demented,’ Alarielle said. ‘You were welcomed into Athel Loren, sorceress. You and your followers both, despite your foul ways. You are of the asur, despite your predilections, and I would not see you dead.’

Hellebron grimaced. ‘You lie,’ she spat. Her grimace twisted into a manic grin. ‘And now, you die!’ She lunged, and Alarielle interposed her staff. The cobblestoned street ruptured as a writhing thicket of thorn-vines burst upwards to ensnare the leaping form of Hellebron. The Blood Queen shrieked in pain, but did not stop. Her blades flashed out, chopping through the vines, and a moment later, she was free. She snarled and drove one of her blades into Alarielle’s belly.

Alarielle screamed as Hellebron jerked the blade free, and clapped a hand to the wound in her stomach. She slumped to her knees, the pain overwhelming her. Her staff rolled away, forgotten. The world seemed to shudder around her, as if in sympathy, and she bowed her head, trying to concentrate through her own internal din. She could feel the essence of Ghyran trying to mend her torn flesh, but she was too weak. The world’s pain, added to her own, was too much to bear. Nonetheless, she could not give in. Too much counted on her. She tried to focus her own magics through those of Ghyran, to bolster her flagging body.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hellebron’s second blade descending towards her neck, as if in slow motion. The Blood Queen’s features were distorted by rage, triumph, and something else. Fear, Alarielle realised. Hellebron was afraid. Of what, she couldn’t say, but that fear was driving the Blood Queen to attack like a wild animal. The Wind of Life whispered in Alarielle’s mind, and in that instant, the Incarnate of Life knew what was required of her.

Alarielle forced herself to her feet and caught Hellebron’s wrist as she rose, halting the blade a hair’s breadth from her neck. She forced her opponent back and tore her hand from her wound. The green energy of life crackled between her bloody fingers as she pressed her hand gently to the side of Hellebron’s contorted face. The magics flowed into the dark elf, and centuries of madness and frenzy were washed away by the healing tide of Ghyran. The fractured psyche of the Blood Queen became whole, for the first time in a thousand or more years, and with lucidity came understanding. For a moment, a different woman entirely looked out through Hellebron’s bulging eyes, saw what she had made of herself, and the witch elf moaned in horror.

Alarielle met Hellebron’s horrified gaze and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, grabbing hold of her opponent’s wrist with both hands, she forced Hellebron’s own blade up into its owner’s chest. The deadly blade passed through Hellebron’s ribs and its curved tip found her heart, and the horror in her eyes faded as her contorted features slackened into something resembling peace. She slumped against Alarielle, and the Everqueen sank back down, blood pouring from the wound in her belly. She slipped down beside her fallen opponent.

She felt cold, and the dark crept in at the edges of her vision. She heard the screams of Hellebron’s remaining followers and the agonised shouts of her people, and wanted to weep for the uselessness of it all, but lacked the strength to do anything but lie still. Is this death, then? she thought. She did not fear it. Aliathra’s face swam before her eyes, and she reached up, hoping to touch her daughter’s cheek once more, to say at last all the things she should have said. I will tell you of your father, and how he tore me from my silk pavilions and slew any who stood in his way, the day that Malekith came for me. I will tell you how we hid in the forests of Avelorn, and what occurred there. I will tell you everything, at last… You are so like him, my daughter. Brave and foolish and proud… I–

A shadow fell over her. Heavy, rough hands picked her up, and a voice like the curling of roots through the hard-packed earth spoke gently to her. Durthu. The treeman cradled her close, and the last thing she heard before oblivion swept her under was his roar, as it shook the Middenplatz down to its foundations.

Vlad watched in consternation as the treeman, still cradling the broken form of the Everqueen, wrenched the cauldron-shrine from its frame and, swinging it by its broken chains, hurled it at the remaining blood-worshippers. Then, with another bone-rattling roar, the ancient spirit uprooted its sword and stalked into battle, killing any who dared stand against it, be they elf, human, beast or daemon.

Too little, too late, brute, Vlad thought, as he blocked a blow from his current opponent, a hammer-wielding berserker who’d announced himself as Harald Hammerstorm, as if Vlad either knew or cared as to his identity. If the Incarnate of Life was dead, that boded ill for their chances to see off whatever apocalypse Archaon was brewing in the bowels of Middenheim. He snarled in frustration. To have come so close, only to fail now, was unacceptable. He had lost Isabella, Sylvania, even Mannfred… He would not lose the world as well.

‘Die, beast,’ Hammerstorm roared. He struck out with a looping blow, which Vlad easily avoided. His riposte glanced from the Chaos warrior’s shield, and they circled one another, each searching for an opening in the other’s defences. Why the warrior had singled him out, Vlad couldn’t say, but he was getting bored. Hammerstorm was tenacious, and annoyingly difficult to hurt. Vlad grinned as the warrior surged towards him, shield tilted, hammer swung back. It was the first mistake his opponent had made, and Vlad intended to make it his last. He slid forward to meet the Chaos warrior, rather than retreating, and let his blade glide across the face of Hammerstorm’s shield. The point of his sword pierced Hammerstorm’s visor, even as the warrior’s hammer caught him in the ribs and knocked him sprawling.

Vlad rolled to his feet with a hiss of pain, one arm pressed tight to his side, as Hammerstorm took a faltering step towards him, hammer raised for another blow. Blood was pouring down the Chaos warrior’s visor. He took another step, a third, and then toppled forwards. He crashed down, and his hammer clattered from his grip. Vlad rose to his feet with a wince, and saluted his fallen enemy.

The wind shifted, and a familiar, if foul, stench invaded his nostrils. He whirled and cursed as he caught sight of the diseased host that crashed against the dwarf line, even as the last of the blood-mad berserkers died. Plaguebearers wielded rusty, pus-encrusted blades against the ragtag shield-wall of the Zhufbarak, and where they struck, metal rusted, leather rotted and flesh turned black and swollen. The golden light of Gelt’s magics warred with the malignant wind of putrefaction as the weary dwarfs met their foes with stolid determination. Even as Vlad hurried towards them, he saw his zombies begin to rot and collapse, even as they had in Sylvania so many weeks ago, and he knew, even though he could not yet see her, that Isabella was near.

‘Hello, wife,’ he murmured. A plaguebearer lurched towards him. Vlad blocked a blow from its mottled blade and snatched a flapping length of intestine from its bloated belly. With a jerk, he tore its guts from its thin body, and decapitated it as it fell to its knees, off balance. ‘Do not hide your pretty face from me, my love… Where are you?’

‘Behind you, my love, my darkling light,’ a voice breathed in his ear. The words faded into the buzzing of flies and he twisted about as a blade tore through his cloak, scraping sparks from his cuirass to mark its path. The swarm of biting, stinging flies enveloped him and he staggered as the insects covered his eyes and nose and mouth, as if seeking to burrow into the meat of him. ‘Come, give me a kiss, Vlad. Open your mouth and let me in,’ Isabella purred, her voice coming from every direction and none.

Vlad slashed out blindly, and the swarm scattered. His zombies were all fallen back into the arms of death, and he stood exposed and alone, caught between the dwarfs and the daemons. He cursed and sprang out of the path of battle, bounding from fallen statues to the tops of fire-blackened stakes and finally to the crumbling ramparts of the Middenplatz wall. Isabella would follow him, he was certain. If she did, their confrontation might give Gelt and Hammerson a chance to defeat the daemons. Without Isabella to guide the beasts, they would be easy enough to banish back to the realm of Chaos.

As he cleared the ramparts, however, a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see an abyssal steed swoop low over the wall before alighting on a crumbled tower, just out of reach. He glared up at the creature and its rider in annoyance. ‘Hello, boy. Come to help, or to hinder?’ Vlad asked.

Mannfred sneered. ‘Neither, if it’s all the same to you. I merely wanted to come say goodbye before your inevitable messy end, old man.’ The other vampire leaned back in his saddle and clapped his hands together. ‘It’s a better one than you deserve, I’ll say that for you.’

‘What you know about what anyone deserves could fill a very small jar,’ Vlad said, suddenly weary. ‘I see you’ve chosen a new side to fight for. How egalitarian of you.’

‘Any port in a storm,’ Mannfred said. He frowned. ‘And the only side I’m interested in fighting for is mine, Vlad. I fight for myself, and no other.’

Vlad smiled, and looked up at the dark sky. ‘I was right. You are like Nagash. More like him than the rest of us, even old Arkhan.’

‘I am nothing like him,’ Mannfred snarled, hammering a fist into his mount’s neck, eliciting a snarling squeal from the beast. ‘Nothing!’

‘No, you’re right. Nagash at least has a will to match his monstrousness. He is true to himself, whatever else. But you are a tyrant, just as he is.’ Vlad shook his head, and looked down at the battle below. ‘A true ruler believes in something greater than himself, boy. A nation, an empire, an ideal. Something…’

‘Oh, spare me,’ Mannfred growled. He flung out a hand. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? You have never done anything out of largesse, old man.’ He smacked his fist against his breastplate. ‘Even me – you only took me under your wing because you needed me.’

Vlad grunted. ‘Not so.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I took you in because I pitied you.’ He cocked his head. ‘In truth, I always preferred Konrad. Dumb as a stone, but honest.’

Mannfred drew himself up, his eyes blazing with hate. Vlad tensed, readying himself for his former protégé’s attack. But Mannfred did not attack. Instead, he shook himself and looked away. Vlad frowned. ‘If you’re not here to plant a sword in my back, boy, why are you wasting my time?’

‘Maybe I simply wanted to indulge in the conviviality of a family gathering once more, before I go to forge my own destiny,’ Mannfred said. Vlad blinked, and then turned towards the gatehouse tower behind him, where he could hear the humming of flies. Isabella, ragged skirts flowing, stepped onto the ramparts.

‘Greetings, husband,’ she said. Her musical tones were overlaid with the guttural growl of the daemon that possessed her. ‘Will you not embrace me?’ she continued. She extended her hand, like a proper noblewoman looking to dance.

‘Yes, Vlad, by all means… embrace her,’ Mannfred said.

Vlad glanced back at him. ‘Leave, boy.’

‘And if I choose to stay?’

‘Then I will kill you after I kill him,’ Isabella said, softly. She drew her sword and extended it. ‘This is not for you, Mannfred. You do not belong here, and you will not sully this moment with your rancour and spite. Run away, little prince. I will find you before the end, have no fear.’

Vlad smiled and shrugged. ‘You heard her, boy. This is a game for adults, not conceited brats. Go bother the elves, eh? I understand Tyrion would like a word or three with you.’ He flapped his hand loosely. Mannfred snarled in frustration and jerked on his steed’s reins. The creature took to the air with a shriek, and Vlad watched it depart. He turned back to Isabella. ‘I won’t let you kill him, my love. Foul as he is, the little prince is still bound to me, and I owe him my protection.’

‘And what do you owe me, my love?’ Isabella said, stepping gracefully towards him.

‘More than that,’ Vlad said softly. ‘I owe you life, and happiness, and eternity. That is what I promised you, once upon a time.’

‘You lied,’ Isabella said, drawing closer.

‘No. Not to you. Never to you,’ Vlad said, readying himself.

‘Lies,’ Isabella hissed. She came for him in a rush, faster than even he could process, and it was only through luck that he parried her blow. They fought back and forth along the rampart, trading blows that would have killed any normal human, or even many vampires. It was all Vlad could do to keep up with her – the daemon in her soul gave her unnatural strength, as well as twisting her mind. Isabella had always been mad but the daemon made it worse, and he cursed it and the gods it served as he fought.

In his mind’s eye, he could still see her as she was on that first night, leaning over her father’s deathbed as he gasped his last. ‘Do you remember the night we met, my love?’ he said, as they crossed blades. ‘The night your father died, and your deceitful uncle attempted to usurp your claim? Do you recall how the stars looked that night?’

‘There was a storm, and no stars,’ Isabella snarled. ‘And you murdered my uncle!’

‘Only with your permission,’ Vlad said, as they broke apart. She screeched and came at him, forcing him to back-pedal. ‘I loved you then, and I love you now…’

‘Lies,’ she hissed, and her sword slashed down, nearly severing his hand at the wrist. His blade fell from nerveless fingers and he staggered back against the ramparts, clutching his wounded wrist. Isabella smiled cruelly, and for a moment, he saw the gloating face of a daemon superimposed over her own. Beneath his grip, he could already feel the ring he wore employing its magics to knit his torn flesh and muscle.

She stretched out her hand, and took a step towards him. ‘I will enjoy seeing your flesh putrefy and slough from your cankerous bones, husband. It is all that you deserve.’

‘Maybe,’ Vlad said. ‘I left you, my poor Isabella. I swore that I would stay by your side forever, and I… lied. I died. And then you…’

She paused, mouth working. He saw the daemon again, snarling silently. Isabella shook her head, and he knew that she was still in there, somewhere. ‘I… died too,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I died.’ She looked at him. ‘I died.’

‘But you live now, and I live, and I will not let you die again, even if it means that I must,’ Vlad said hoarsely. He thought of his dreams, and hopes, of the Empire he’d hoped to rule and serve, and of old friends he’d hoped to see again before the end. And he thought of a young woman named Isabella von Drak, and the way she’d smiled at him in the moonlight, and touched his face without fear, when the beast in him was awakened. And just like that, Vlad von Carstein knew what to do.

He flung himself forwards as she hesitated, and smashed the blade from her hand. As she lunged for him, he grabbed her arms and twisted them up behind her back. Where her hands touched his, his flesh began to moulder and rot, and he snarled in agony, even as he slid the von Carstein ring from his finger and onto hers. Then, grabbing hold of her, he shoved them both towards the edge of the ramparts with the last of his fading strength.

As they fell towards the fire-seared stakes below, Vlad laughed. This feels unpleasantly familiar, he thought, in the moment before they struck one of the stakes at the foot of the wall. The point of the stake punched through Vlad’s heart an instant after Isabella’s. He felt her go limp beneath him. He felt no pain, or regret, and as his body came apart, he caught her head and pressed his lips to hers. Then she was gone, and what was left of Vlad von Carstein slumped into oblivion on its stake.

Balthasar Gelt shouted an incantation, and felt the Wind of Metal surge through him. The air coalesced about the plaguebearer that had been about to strike down one of his bodyguards, and the daemon was suddenly encased in silver. Steam spewed from the tiny gaps in the sheath of blessed metal as the daemon was sent howling back into the void. The dwarf reached out with his hammer and nudged the statue over. He caught Gelt’s eye and grunted wordlessly, as he hefted his battered shield and moved back into the fray.

‘It was my pleasure,’ Gelt said. He wasn’t entirely sure which of the two Anvil Guard it was – whether it was Stromni he’d saved, or Gorgi. It didn’t matter, in any event. They weren’t the most talkative duo, and didn’t seem to know his name either, calling him variously ‘manling’, ‘wizard’ or the more ubiquitous ‘human’.

He swung his staff about, unleashing a crackling surge of magic. More daemons were erased from existence, ripped apart by golden bolts or shredded by tendrils of thrashing iron. But for every chortling plaguebearer that fell, two more took its place. The daemons were without number, and without fear. They crashed again and again into the ragged and ever-shrinking shield-wall of the Zhufbarak like a limitless tide of filth. The air was thick with flies and screams. Not even his magic could hold them back indefinitely.

The knowledge didn’t weigh as heavily on him as it once might have. As far as he was concerned, he was living on borrowed time. He had cast his soul into the blackest depths, and it was only by chance that he had been saved from damnation. If this be doomsday, I will not flinch from it, he thought, and then smiled at his own pomposity. It’s not like I’ll have the time, at any rate. The world is coming apart and it will take greater powers than mine to hold it together. He tossed his staff from one hand to the other and drew his sword, parrying a blow from a pox-riddled blade. As their weapons scraped apart, Gelt rammed his staff into the plaguebearer’s belly and sent a pulse of magic thrumming through it. The plaguebearer twitched in consternation, and then exploded as a thousand thin spikes of gold tore it apart from the inside.

Gelt swung his staff about like a morning star, and sent the ever-expanding sphere of spikes hurtling into the packed ranks of the enemy. The sphere exploded into a thicket of thrashing tendrils, and at his shouted command, the dwarfs took the opportunity to fall back while their foes were otherwise occupied. As dwarfs streamed past him, Gelt set his staff and roused the hidden deposits of ore in the bedrock of the Fauschlag, summoning them to the surface. Great barricades of molten metal flowered into being between the Zhufbarak and the plague-host.

‘That won’t hold them long.’

Gelt turned to see Hammerson stumping towards him. The runesmith had lost his helm, and his face and beard were streaked with blood and soot. Nonetheless, he was smiling grimly. ‘Good plan, though. Give us a minute to have a wee drink, at any rate.’

‘I think we’re out of Bugman’s,’ Gelt said. ‘You’ll have to settle for water.’

‘I’ll die thirsty then,’ Hammerson said. ‘Out of Bugman’s… it really is the end of the world.’ He tossed his head, indicating the remaining elves. ‘The elgi woman, Alarielle… she’s dying, lad.’

Gelt turned and looked towards the ragged ring of elven shields that sheltered the fallen Everqueen. Her remaining warriors surrounded her, fighting alongside the dwarfs. The treeman, Durthu, loomed over the Everqueen, killing any daemon which drew too close. As Gelt watched, the ancient spirit spread its arms and roared so loudly that a semi-ruined wall nearby collapsed, filling the air with dust.

‘What is he doing?’ Gelt muttered, as Durthu hurled its sword into the leering, bloated face of a great unclean one, spitting the greater daemon like a hog over a fire-pit. The treeman shoved Alarielle’s defenders aside and sank down beside her limp, pale form. Gelt started forwards, but Hammerson grabbed him.

‘Don’t even think about it, lad. Whatever he’s doing, it’s only bound to help, and you’ll only rile him up if you interfere,’ the dwarf said. Gelt subsided, but continued to watch, unable to look away. As he watched in awe, the treeman’s bark-flesh withered and cracked, and leaves fell like dust from his shoulders and head. Gelt could feel the power flowing between Durthu and Alarielle, and knew, without knowing how, that the treeman was giving of his own life to restore the Everqueen.

The calcified and crumbling husk of Durthu collapsed in on itself as Alarielle’s form swelled with light and life. She rose, her flesh unmarked, her eyes clear. She gently touched the crumbling remains of Durthu and then turned. The light of Ghyran crackled in her eyes, and she spread her arms and threw back her head to sing a single perfect note.

Gelt and Hammerson threw up their hands to protect their eyes as white fire, crested with green, filled the Middenplatz and roared hungrily through the Palast District. It passed over the heads of the remaining elves and dwarfs harmlessly, but where it struck the hordes of daemons, it wreaked a terrible destruction. Hundreds of daemons were reduced to ash in a matter of moments, but thousands more pressed forwards, through the sooty remains of their fellows. To Gelt, it was as if the Dark Gods were determined to prevent them from reaching the centre of the city at any cost.

And why wouldn’t they be? That is where Archaon is, and his devilish artefact, and that is where the true battle is. Not here, Gelt thought, looking around. They were cut off. Surrounded on all sides… save one. The northern gatehouse had been cleared by Alarielle’s fire. As she moved to join he and Hammerson, he looked at her. ‘We must get to the Temple of Ulric,’ he said. She frowned, one hand pressed to her head.

‘Yes… I can feel it. That is where the artefact is,’ she said, wincing as if the thought pained her. ‘But we have no time. Our forces cannot…’

‘No,’ Hammerson grunted. ‘We cannot. But we can hold the way clear, and buy you time.’ The runesmith gestured and Gelt saw one of Hammerson’s Anvil Guard lead his pegasus, Quicksilver, towards them. His heart leapt at the sight of the proud animal. It had been hurt during the battle in the King’s Glade, one wing badly scorched. But though the animal couldn’t fly, Quicksilver was still the fastest stallion this side of the famed stables of Tiranoc. Or would have been, had either the stables or Tiranoc still existed.

‘I do not wish to ask this of you,’ Gelt began, as he looked at Hammerson. He reached out, without thinking, and placed his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. Hammerson twitched, as if to knock the hand aside, but in the end, he merely shook his head.

‘Then don’t. No time for long goodbyes, lad,’ Hammerson rumbled, placing his heavy hand over Gelt’s. ‘We made an oath, and we’ll not break it now.’

Gelt hesitated, trying to summon the words. Hammerson nudged him impatiently, poking him in the belly with the flat of his hammer. ‘Go on, lad. Get moving, the both of you. There’s work to be done, and it’s best done well. Don’t let the elgi and that tottering tower of bones mess it up.’ The runesmith grinned. ‘We’ll see to things here, one way or another.’

Gelt nodded and turned away. He caught hold of Quicksilver’s bridle and hauled himself into the pegasus’s saddle. The animal whinnied and reared, as Gelt extended his hand to Alarielle. She climbed into the saddle behind him, without hesitation. ‘We must ride swiftly, wizard,’ she murmured as she wrapped an arm around his midsection. ‘They will pursue us.’

‘Let them try. Quicksilver has outpaced daemons before. Aye, and worse things besides,’ Gelt said confidently. At a tap of his heels, the pegasus began to gallop towards the northern gatehouse. He did not look back as he felt the twinge of Hammerson’s magics on the wind, and heard the crack of gunfire. Alarielle pressed her face to his back as her people moved around them, elves and dryads fighting and dying to clear them a path.

Daemons bounded forwards to block their route, but Gelt thrust his staff out, over Quicksilver’s head, and swept the creatures aside with a gout of shimmering energy. Then they were past the northern gatehouse and galloping through the streets beyond, in the direction of the Ulricsmund and the Temple of Ulric.

As they rode, Gelt whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening that the other Incarnates would be there to meet them.

Hammerson watched Gelt ride away, and smiled sadly. ‘A good lad, that one, for all that he’s had a rough path to walk.’

‘Aye,’ Grombrindal rumbled. Hammerson could not say where the white-bearded dwarf had come from, or when he had arrived, but he was here now, and that was all that mattered. If this was to be the last war of the dwarfs, it was only fitting that the White Dwarf himself be there to fight alongside them. Grombrindal hefted his axe, and ran his thumb along the edge. ‘But he and the elgi woman are best out of it, eh? This is dwarf work.’

‘Aye, that it is,’ Hammerson said. He no longer felt tired. Though Gelt’s enchantments were fading, his warriors looked as fresh as the day they’d set out for Averheim, so long ago. It was as if the presence of the revered ancestor had renewed their strength.

He looked past the shield-wall and saw that the Chaos hordes, daemons and mortals alike, were readying themselves to charge once more. If they were allowed to get past the Zhufbarak, the Incarnates would pay the price. Hammerson raised his axe. ‘Plant the standards, lads,’ he bellowed. ‘I want to fight in the shade.’

With a loud rattle, the clan standards were stabbed into the ground, creating a makeshift forest of gold and steel. Hammerson looked up at them, and knew that he was seeing them for the last time. ‘I forged some of those myself,’ he said.

‘Good runework,’ Grombrindal said.

‘Not worth doing, otherwise,’ Hammerson said.

Flesh hounds howled, and bloodthirsters roared. Bloodletters shrieked and mortal warriors added their chants and screams to the daemonic clamour. The dwarfs ignored the noise. Hammerson nodded in satisfaction. ‘I wish Ungrim were here. He’d love this.’

‘He is here, lad,’ Grombrindal rumbled. ‘They’re all here, standing with us, in this moment. All the kings and their clans, be they thane, clansman or Slayer, they are with us now. Can’t you feel them? They are crying out for vengeance. Today is a day for the settling of all grudges, great or small.’

As the White Dwarf spoke, Hammerson thought he could see them. The ghosts of his ancestors moved through the ranks of the living to fill the gaps in the shield-wall. And not just the dead of storied centuries, but those more recent. He saw Thorek Ironbrow, and Ungrim Ironfist. He saw Thorgrim, the Grudgebearer himself, and others besides. Faces and names from history and recent days. It was as if the entirety of their people had come to witness this final act of defiance.

He saw Grombrindal standing upon a broad shield, supported on the shoulders of a one-eyed Slayer and a tankard-carrying ranger. The good eye of the Slayer met his own, and Hammerson felt his growing sadness washed away in a moment of anger. Anger that it had come to this, that all the great works of his people were now as nothing. The fate of the world would be decided elsewhere, by the hands of humans and elves.

For the dwarfs, there was only this. The whole of their history, brought to this point. Hammerson met Grombrindal’s gaze, and the White Dwarf nodded slowly. If it must be done, let it be done well, Hammerson thought. Whether they were dead or alive, that was the only way dwarfs knew how to do anything.

On the other side of the shield-wall, the Chaos horde had jolted into motion at last. Hammerson lifted his weapons. ‘We make our stand here,’ he said, trusting in his voice to carry to every ear. ‘No more running. We stand here, for the Black Water, for every hold, and the world entire. Do you hear me, sons of Zhufbar? Like the stones of the mountains… we will hold.’

EIGHTEEN

Caradryan spun his Phoenix Blade, blocking the deadly bite of the axe as it flashed towards him. The Chaos champion known as Arbaal the Undefeated roared in fury and hacked at the Incarnate of Fire again. Nearby, Ashtari shrieked in fury as he tore at the scaly body of Arbaal’s flesh hound. The daemon-dog wailed in frustrated rage as the firebird drove its beak into the beast’s flesh again and again.

‘I have slaughtered armies of elves,’ Arbaal roared. His axe reeked of hot blood, and it left trails of crimson smoke in its wake as he brought it slashing down towards Caradryan’s head. ‘I have broken the backs of dragons, and eaten the hearts of sea-leviathans.’

‘Your culinary practices are no concern of mine,’ Caradryan snarled, parrying the blow. His arms ached, but he whirled the halberd about as if it were as light as a feather. He twisted and spun, driving the Chaos champion back. ‘It does not matter to me how many you have murdered, monster. It ends here.’

Quicker than thought, Caradryan lunged, slashed and jabbed, striking Arbaal again and again. He knew that were he not host to Aqshy, he would have no hope of standing up to such a foe, let alone defeating him. But with the fire raging in him, he felt as if there were no battle he could not survive. It was a dangerous feeling. He had spent centuries honing his mind and body, and learning to control the rage that was the curse of every elf. But the fire called to that primal part of him, and lent it strength. He wondered if this was akin to what Tyrion had felt, when the fury of Khaine had driven him into madness and despair. There was a freedom in it that called to him, and that he longed to embrace. Instead, he whispered the mantras of Asuryan, trying to maintain focus.

Arbaal swatted the Phoenix Blade aside, ripping it out of Caradryan’s hands. The elf cursed himself for his momentary lack of focus and threw himself over Arbaal’s next blow, his hands reaching for the halberd’s haft. He caught the weapon and rolled to his feet, turning just in time to block a blow that would have split him in half. Shattered cobbles shifted beneath his feet as Arbaal put all of his weight behind his axe, and forced the elf back.

Caradryan wrenched his halberd to the side, trying to twist the axe out of his opponent’s grip, but Arbaal was ready for such a tactic, and he drove a fist into the elf’s belly. Caradryan staggered back, and lurched aside as Arbaal tried to smash him from his feet.

The axe gashed his arm, and Caradryan bit back a scream. His blood hissed and bubbled as it splattered Arbaal’s cuirass, and the Chaos champion hesitated, giving Caradryan a chance to put distance between them. As he retreated, Caradryan cursed himself for a fool. If he hadn’t moved when he had, Arbaal’s blow would have taken his arm off. He could feel the fire within him, demanding to be let out. But to do so would be to doom his warriors to certain death. Arbaal charged towards him, axe ready. The weapon howled as it came around. Only one chance, he thought.

Caradryan spun about and leapt backwards over the sweeping blow. He tumbled through the air and dropped down behind Arbaal. Even as the champion whirled to face Caradryan, the Phoenix Blade slashed out. Ancient armour, crafted in Khorne’s own forges, ruptured as the fiery blade tore upwards through it. Arbaal sagged backwards, clutching at the wound. He raised his axe, but Caradryan hacked his arm off at the elbow. Arbaal screamed in fury and lurched towards the elf, groping for him with his remaining hand.

Caradryan stepped back, out of reach, and pivoted, hammering the edge of his halberd into the space between Arbaal’s collar and the bottom of his helmet. The white-hot blade tore through the champion’s neck, and his head tumbled free to roll away across the cobbles. Caradryan sank back against a wall, panting. He placed a hand to the wound in his arm, and winced as his touch cauterised the bloody slash.

He looked up. Proud princes of drowned Caledor swooped fearlessly through the increasingly agitated skies on their dragons, braving the lightning and sorcerous fire that rained from the bloated clouds in order to drive back the enemy. As he watched, a dragon was struck by a Chaos-birthed bolt of emerald lightning and its smoking corpse plunged from the sky to demolish a row of ramshackle houses.

Below them, plunging recklessly through the plazas and streets of the Sudgarten and the Ulricsmund, came the remaining knights of Ulthuan, the Empire and even chill Naggaroth – Reiksguard galloped alongside Silver Helms and the shrieking, scaly shapes of Cold Ones. The wave of armour and horseflesh swept over and smashed down the enemy wherever they struck. And at their head rode the shining figure of the Dragon of Cothique, his blade searing the darkness and all those things which sought to hide in it. It was the greatest cavalry charge in the history of the world, led by the greatest hero the elven people had ever produced. And he was not alone – the Emperor was there as well, on the back of his griffon, Deathclaw. Where the great beast pounced, blood and horror ensued for the followers of Chaos.

Around Caradryan, his host battled on against the enemy as well. His warriors were cloaked and shielded by fire, and it spilled from their weapons to consume northman and daemon alike. And there were plenty of both to feed the growing conflagration. Even with the forces of Tyrion and the Emperor, they were hard-pressed. The closer they drew to the Temple of Ulric and the great excavation which marked it, the harder the servants of the Ruinous Powers fought. But they fight in vain, he thought.

Already, the less fanatical of the enemy were beginning to fall back. Especially those who had witnessed the defeat of Arbaal. The champion had slaughtered a score of Ulthuan’s finest before Caradryan had reached him, and like as not, he could have carried the day by himself. With his fall, his warriors were starting to retreat, and the daemons who had accompanied him were wavering into instability, their always-tenuous hold on the world slipping. Too, he could feel the presence of the other Incarnates, not just Tyrion and Karl Franz, but Nagash and the others as well, all drawing closer. They would be here soon, and if Teclis was to be believed, no power in the world could stand against them. Victory seemed not only possible, but imminent.

A bellow, deeper and more powerful than the loudest roll of thunder, pierced Caradryan’s burgeoning hopes and swept them aside. It echoed down from the sky and rose from the ground; it shivered through the bricks and tore through alleyways and escaped from cul-de-sacs. The sound reverberated through every cobblestone and he clutched his head in agony, even as he turned, seeking out the author of that cry.

A moment later, the sky erupted in fire. Blazing meteors pierced the clouds and smashed home amidst the battle, killing warriors from both sides indiscriminately. The cry continued, growing impossibly loud as more and more meteors hammered down, levelling buildings and pummelling streets into ruin. Caradryan swept his halberd out, summoning a shield of flame to protect those few of his warriors that he could reach. But it was to no avail. His flames were snuffed, and elves died. Caradryan snarled in fury and whistled for Ashtari. The phoenix rose from the corpse of Arbaal’s flesh hound with a single beat of its crimson wings and swooped towards him, dodging through the rain of burning debris. He caught hold of the bird’s harness and hauled himself up onto its back as it streaked past.

His warriors followed him as he flew on, each one knowing, even as Caradryan did, that to stand still, or to seek shelter, was to die. So they followed him, plunging through the fleeing ranks of the enemy and carving themselves a path towards their goal. The Temple of Ulric was within sight, and nothing – not the enemy, or the wrath of the Dark Gods themselves – would deter the sons and daughters of Ulthuan from reaching it.

Tyrion swept Sunfang out in a shimmering arc. The daemoness the Loremasters knew as Dechala, the Denied One, parried the blow, shrieking and cursing him in the ancient tongue of his people as her coils tightened about he and Malhandir. The battle swirled on around them, as the finest warriors of three kingdoms fought and died against the forces of the Dark Gods, and the sky wept fire. Nearby, what had once been a tavern exploded, filling the air with burning chunks of wood and stone.

Dechala’s many arms flailed at him as she rained blow after brutal blow down, but he blocked each of them with a speed which shocked even him. He could feel the power of Hysh flowing through him, lending him speed of body and mind. Whatever you have done to me, brother, wherever you are, thank you, he thought. The daemoness had come at him suddenly, out of the press of battle, striking like an adder. It was as if she had been hunting for him alone, but he suspected any Incarnate would have done. He caught sight of Deathclaw, swooping low over the battle, and saw the Emperor’s runefang flash and remove a bloodletter’s head as he passed it. Despite the situation, he was glad the daemoness had found him, rather than the human. Whoever or whatever he was, he was still no match for a creature like Dechala.

Dechala chose that moment to lunge for him, swift as the serpent she resembled, her beautiful features contorted with hate. Her jaws spread wide, and he was forced to catch hold of her chin with his free hand. The poison dripping from her fangs hissed and sputtered where it dripped onto his gauntlet. Tyrion shoved her head back, and her flesh began to smoulder where he touched it as his aura of light started to burn away her cloak of darkness. She shrieked and squirmed, tail lashing. Malhandir whinnied in pain as her coils tightened convulsively.

Tyrion parried a blow meant to gut him, and his riposte was swifter than even the daemoness could follow. Sunfang was a blur of light, and it pierced Dechala’s chest before she even had a chance to scream. The Denied One slumped, smoke rising from her, and her coils loosened and flopped quivering to the ground, to be trodden into ruin by Malhandir’s hooves. Tyrion urged his horse on, and the animal reared and lunged away from the dissolving ruin of the daemon princess even as a fiery meteor obliterated the spot where she had fallen.

He heard a familiar shriek from above, and saw Caradryan hurtle towards the Temple of Ulric in the distance, his host following in his shadow. Flaming blades and spears cut the host a path through the disorganised rabble of the Chaos forces. Tyrion grinned. Leave it to the silent one to lead the way, he thought. He hauled on Malhandir’s reins, and the stallion pawed the air with a whinny.

‘Ride,’ Tyrion roared with all the strength he could muster, to those of his warriors still fighting around him, whether they were human or elf. ‘Ride and fear no darkness. Ride, for the world, and the breaking of the gods!’ Even as his steed’s hooves struck the ground, the animal was in motion, charging in Caradryan’s wake. Those who could fell in behind him, as fiery ruin continued to hammer the cursed city from above. Knights of Stirland, Altdorf and Ostland, of Cothique and Caledor, of Ghrond and Hag Graef, galloped in his wake. The proud survivors of three kingdoms, who looked to him for orders and inspiration.

Tyrion felt the weight of that responsibility keenly, even as he found joy in the sound of thundering hooves and the rattle of lances. He knew, in his heart, that this was the last charge of the world’s defenders. Even if they won, even if the Dark Gods were cast back, the flower of elven ithiltaen and of human chivalry would fall here, never to ride again. Win or lose, the pillars of his world had been broken. And we must see that it was not in vain, he thought. He leaned forwards, over Malhandir’s neck, and hacked down a northman standard bearer as he swept past.

The Temple of Ulric rose into sight as Tyrion galloped through the cramped streets of the Ulricsmund. The building was a shell of its former glory. It had been defiled and shattered by the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Tyrion recalled how Teclis had spoken of the city, when he had made common cause with the human Magnus against the forces of Chaos. Tyrion himself had been occupied fighting the druchii, after the battle of Finuval Plain. Teclis had said that Magnus had been a small man, and unimpressive at first glance, but filled with an inner fire that had been matched only by the Flame of Ulric itself. The same Flame that now coursed through Tyrion’s blood, and lent its strength to his own.

He heard a snarl, and looked over his shoulder to see the Emperor’s bodyguard, Wendel Volker, riding hard at his elbow. The Reiksguard looked almost as monstrous in that moment as their enemies, his eyes as yellow as a beast’s and his lips peeled back from teeth which were too long. Then the moment passed and he was but a man again. Tyrion turned away. He did not know for certain what force lurked in the human, but whatever it was, it made him as savage as any of the great lions of Chrace.

Malhandir whinnied, and Tyrion snapped out of his reverie with a curse. They were within sight of the great excavation which marred the side of the Temple and marked where the artefact Be’lakor had spoken of was housed, but even as they drew close, a blaze of crackling warpflame suddenly roared to life, blocking off their advance. Tyrion hauled back on Malhandir’s reins, bringing the horse to a sudden stop.

‘Can you do anything?’ a voice called down from above. Tyrion looked up as the Emperor’s griffon landed nearby. The human looked as exhausted as Tyrion felt, but he still gripped his sword firmly. ‘We are running short on time.’

‘I… don’t know,’ Tyrion said. He urged Malhandir forwards, aware that as he did so, he could hear a growing war-chant echoing from the north. The enemy had found their courage, now that the rain of fire had slackened, and were regrouping. Tyrion felt Hysh rise within him as he extended Sunfang towards the crackling flames. Through the multicoloured haze, he could see the robed shapes of Chaos sorcerers and capering daemons.

Light flared, rising from his every pore, driving back the dark all around him. The flames quavered as the light struck them, and recoiled for a moment before reforming, even stronger than before. Tyrion climbed down from Malhandir’s saddle and strode forwards, blade still extended. The flames gave way before him, but then roared up, as if to envelop him.

A gleaming halberd slid into place alongside Sunfang. Tyrion glanced aside, and saw Caradryan take up a position beside him. The Incarnate of Fire smiled thinly. ‘Let us face the fire together, heir of Aenarion,’ Caradryan rasped. Tyrion nodded tersely, and then turned back to the flames. Together, the two Incarnates drove their power against the warpfire barrier, trying to snuff it. Beads of sweat rolled down Tyrion’s face as he summoned the light and sent it frenzying forth to sear the unnatural flames. Beside him, Caradryan’s own flames burned hotter and brighter than the colourful daemon-inferno. But still, the warpfire barrier held.

Behind him, Tyrion could hear the Emperor shouting orders, reforming the ranks of the combined armies to face the attack that was imminent. The human was a commander without equal. But he also knew that this was no longer a battle for mortals… It was the Rhana Dandra and only gods could hope to keep their footing in the torrent of blood to come. He almost turned back, to lend his aid, when Caradryan grabbed his shoulder. He glanced at the former captain of the Phoenix Guard, and nodded. You are right, my friend… If these flames are not snuffed, we will all perish this day.

The howling grew louder and louder, until it beat at his ears. Tyrion risked a glance, and saw a nightmare horde burst through the streets and dash pell-mell towards the combined armies of men and elves. Northland hounds, lean and athirst, loped ahead of savage brutes which had once been men, before some fell power had driven all reason and humanity from them, reducing them to feral monstrosities. The berserker wave slammed into the allied lines, and died in droves. But not all of them, and some managed to drag a knight from his horse, or pounce on a spearman and bear him to the ground, their teeth in his throat.

Tyrion instinctively turned, his blade sweeping out. Light speared forth, and a group of howling barbarians were immolated in an instant. Before he could turn his attentions back to the barrier of flame, however, Caradryan shoved him aside. Tyrion hit the ground and rolled to his feet as a monstrous shape slammed down onto the street where he’d been standing. Tyrion raised his sword as the bloodthirster rose to its full height and turned towards him. The beast gestured with its hammer. ‘Ka’Bandha has come, elf,’ it roared. ‘You thought to escape me, mortals, but the Huntsman of Khorne will not be denied!’

‘Running wasn’t my idea, I assure you,’ Tyrion snarled. He darted in, and threw himself beneath the daemon’s first blow. As its hammer smashed down on the street, he was already on his feet. Sunfang whipped out, carving a trail of fire across the bloodthirster’s back. Ka’Bandha reared back and roared. It whipped around, and Tyrion was forced to leap back as the axe it clutched in its other hand crashed down, carving a gouge in the street. Before he could launch another attack, the daemon wrenched its weapon free of the street and reared back, slamming one massive hoof into his chest. Tyrion skidded backwards, his chest aching and no air in his lungs.

Before Ka’Bandha could take advantage of his predicament, however, the Emperor was there, his runefang singing as it carved through one of the bloodthirster’s wings, eliciting a shriek of fury. That shriek rapidly became a snarl of triumph, as Ka’Bandha whirled and smashed Deathclaw from the air with the flat of its axe. ‘You… Your skull is mine, human,’ Ka’Bandha roared, as it closed in on the fallen animal and its rider.

‘And yours is mine, hound of carnage,’ Caradryan grated, as Ashtari swooped around the bloodthirster’s head. The Phoenix Blade flashed and Ka’Bandha staggered as flames roared about it, singeing its unnatural flesh and scorching its brass armour. But the beast did not fall, no matter how many wounds Caradryan opened in its hide.

Ka’Bandha bellowed and swung its hammer out, catching the phoenix as it dived past. The great bird fell with a scream and the bloodthirster was on it in an instant, with fatal results. The daemon’s hammer rose and fell with deadly precision, and the last phoenix of the Flamespyres died. Caradryan, who had fallen from his saddle, hacked at the daemon in a fury, and his halberd, wreathed in white-hot flames, crashed down on Ka’Bandha’s skull hard enough to shatter the brass crown the daemon wore, and to open its scalp to the bone.

Ka’Bandha, blinded by its own ichor, lashed out wildly, trying to drive the Incarnate back. As Tyrion dragged himself to his feet, he saw one wild swing of the hammer catch Caradryan in the legs, and he heard the snap as the elf’s bones were shattered by the impact. Caradryan fell heavily, striking the hard rock of the Ulricsmund with crushing force, and his halberd was jarred from his hand as the bloodthirster bore down on him.

Tyrion, one arm wrapped around his side, staggered towards them, but was too slow. Ka’Bandha lifted one hoof high, over Caradryan, who strained to reach the haft of his weapon, which lay just out of reach. The daemon stamped down onto the Incarnate’s chest, and, with a thunderous crunch, Caradryan, captain of the Phoenix Guard, servant of Asuryan, died. Tyrion watched in horror as sparks of flame burst from the shattered corpse and took root in the bloodthirster’s flesh, running hungrily across its limbs, until no part of the daemon was not aflame. Ka’Bandha wailed and thrashed in obvious agony as it felt the wrath of Aqshy. Even so, the beast did not fall.

Tyrion saw Deathclaw hurtle towards the daemon once more, the Emperor clinging to his saddle, his blade sweeping out. But before his blow could land, Ka’Bandha lashed out, even as it had before, and struck the griffon from the air with its hammer, driving the beast into the rubble of the temple nearby. The Emperor was flung from his saddle by the impact, and thrown high through the remnants of a stained glass window and into the temple beyond. Tyrion’s heart sank as the bloodthirster turned towards him, grinning through the flames that ate at its bestial features. Though the fires burned it, its lust for battle had not dimmed.

‘Flee, blood-speck, and I shall save your skull for another day,’ Ka’Bandha gurgled, as it glared down at him. ‘Flee, little elf, and do not seek to come between the Huntsman and his prey this night.’

Tyrion straightened, and felt the fire sing in his veins. The light around him began to glow, and the daemon winced. It raised a hand, as if to shield its eyes. Tyrion raised Sunfang. ‘I do not bargain with daemons,’ he said. ‘I kill them.’

Then, with a yell, he launched himself towards Caradryan’s slayer.

The Emperor awoke in darkness, his face sticky with blood and his body a mass of aches and pains. Forgot what that was like, he thought sourly, as he pushed himself to his feet. The air was heavy, and a slaughterhouse stink was thick in his nostrils.

He looked around warily, hands flexing. He’d lost his runefang somewhere between here and Ka’Bandha’s hammer, and he scanned his surroundings for something to take its place. He peered into the darkness, marking the body of a Chaos warrior nearby. The man’s sword was to hand. Though he was loath to touch it, beggars couldn’t be choosers. As he started forward, he took note of the corpses hanging from the ceiling on heavy chains and hooks.

With a start, he realised he was under the great dome of the temple. For a brief heartbeat, rage pulsed through him to see this most holy of shrines defiled so, but he regained control of himself quickly. ‘Work first, mourn later,’ he muttered.

‘Same old Sigmar.’

The voice slithered out of the dark. The Emperor froze, and then turned, following the echoes of laughter. He saw a throne of skulls and flayed skin rising above a dais of bones, and at its base, a familiar gleam of bronze. ‘Ha,’ he murmured. No cleansing flame, no sunlit morning, had ever seemed as beautiful as the sight of his hammer, gleaming in the dark. He stepped towards it, hand reaching out, but stopped as the laughter echoed again.

‘Yesssss, it is you. I knew it from the first. I smelt your stink on the wind the moment that fool elf freed you from the Vortex, Unberogen. For two thousand years, this world was free of you, but here you are, hiding in a dead man’s skin.’

Sigmar looked up as the alabaster-skinned figure climbed atop the back of the throne and spread great black wings. Eyes like polished opals shone as the horned head twisted about. ‘It has been a long time, my old friend,’ the daemon prince murmured. ‘Centuries since last we spoke, eh, Sigmar?’

‘Gerreon,’ Sigmar said. He felt the old hate welling up again, like a wound that had never properly healed. A woman’s face passed before his eyes, and receded into memory. This thing before him had been his friend, once upon a time. Now, it was a plaything of Chaos.

‘Azazel,’ the daemon prince corrected, gently. ‘Alas, no time to catch up, I’m afraid. No time to speak of better days, of loves lost and won. Time is speeding up, and the world judders to pieces in haste. I thought… well. One last moment, before the end.’ Azazel pointed at the fallen shape of Ghal Maraz, where it lay amidst the refuse of barbarity. ‘You want that filthy thing, cousin? Then come and take it, if you dare.’

Sigmar lunged for the hammer. Azazel gave a wild shriek of laughter and flung himself towards his prey, drawing a blade covered in ruinous sigils as he did so. The blade slammed down, inches from Sigmar’s head. The Emperor rolled aside. Azazel rose, wings stretching out. He stood between Sigmar and his weapon, and spread his arms as if in invitation. ‘A good effort, but not good enough. Not for this,’ Azazel said. He took a step towards Sigmar. ‘I wish that we had more time, my friend. I have been waiting so long to see you again.’

‘Can’t say the same, I’m afraid,’ Sigmar said.

Azazel laughed. ‘Oh, how I have missed you,’ he said. Then with a single snap of his wings, he hurtled forwards. His blade hissed as it whipped towards Sigmar’s neck. Sigmar twisted aside and flung himself towards his hammer. Even as he caught the haft, he heard the boom of Azazel’s wings. He rolled onto his back, and just managed to block the daemon prince’s blade with the haft of Ghal Maraz. For a moment, Azazel crouched above him. The blade writhed like a thing alive in his clawed grip. ‘Do you ever think of her, brother of my heart?’ Azazel purred, as he forced the blade down. ‘Do you recall her scent in lonely moments, or the way the light caught her hair? Do the memories press down on your heart, when you recall Ravenna? Do you spare even a thought for dear Pendrag?’ Azazel chuckled. ‘I know I don’t.’

‘I think about them always, Gerreon. As I have thought about this moment,’ Sigmar said, from between gritted teeth. He felt stronger than before, as if some part of him which had been missing up until now had returned. It wasn’t simply the presence of Ghal Maraz, but something else – as if a weight had been lifted from him. He heard the clash of steel in his head, and the song of distant stars. He pushed back against Azazel. The daemon prince’s eyes widened.

‘What are you–?’ Azazel began. Sigmar shoved the haft of the hammer up, and Azazel screeched as the edge of his own blade gashed his chest and throat. He tumbled backwards, wings flailing. His blood hissed as it burned the flagstones. Sigmar swept his hammer out, and inhuman bone splintered as the force of the blow tore the daemon prince’s sword from his grip. The sword wailed like a wounded cat as it was sent skidding across the floor.

Sigmar kicked him in the head as he tried to rise. The daemon prince yowled as the Emperor trod on his wings, pinning him in place. Sigmar raised Ghal Maraz over his head. ‘You said it yourself, Gerreon. There is no time. And so I send you back to the forge of souls more quickly than you deserve.’

‘No!’ Azazel shrieked. His eyes bulged in fear as he tried to tear himself free, to no avail. The hammer came down with thunderous finality. The great wings twitched once, and then fell still. Sigmar Unberogen looked down at the rapidly dissolving ruin of a man he’d once called friend, shook himself, and strode away, towards the sound of fighting.

There was a war to be won. And a world to be saved.

NINETEEN

Wendel Volker grunted as his sword became lodged in the skull of a snarling northman, and he released it as the body slumped. He reached down and snatched up the axe of a fallen White Lion and spun it experimentally. Somehow, the axe, despite not being made for human hands, felt more natural in his hand than any sword ever had.

An axe is a warrior’s weapon, Ulric growled softly. Volker ignored the god and turned to chop a leaping Chaos hound out of the air, sending the dying beast crashing down nearby. He whirled back, and smashed aside a brass-faced shield before cleaving through the breastbone of its owner. He tore the axe free and spun, seeking more foes. He’d lost his horse in the first charge, but he’d never been comfortable with the animals. As far as Volker was concerned, being on a horse made you a target. Ulric seemed to feel the same way.

Anarchy reigned wherever Volker cast his gaze. Bellowed war cries and the clash of steel echoed across the city. All around him, men and elves were hard-pressed by the savage northmen. The latter seemed tireless, driven beyond all reason and discipline and into a red rage that ended only in death. They came again and again, hurling themselves at the dwindling ranks of the Empire and the elves, dying in droves but pulling down warriors in their death-throes. Even worse, the northmen were not alone in their assault. The clamour of battle was drawing enemies from all over the city, including beastmen and skaven.

A flare of light startled him, and he turned to see Tyrion still locked in combat with the bloodthirster. The elf was holding his own, but only just. The bloodthirster had already killed one Incarnate, and though it was wreathed in flames and bleeding from dozens of wounds, it didn’t seem to be slowing down. And Tyrion was beginning to tire.

A knight, bearing the bull emblem of Ostland on one pauldron, staggered into him. Volker grabbed his arm, and the knight tried to pull free. His armour was scorched and dented, and he’d lost his helmet. ‘Let go of me, damn you,’ he cried.

‘Get back in line,’ Volker snarled. The man paled and stumbled back.

‘The Emperor is dead,’ he shouted. ‘We cannot win!’

Volker tensed, and Ulric snarled within him. Before he could stop himself, he swung his axe and decapitated the knight. Cowardice is like a disease, Ulric growled, and it spreads as swiftly as any pox. Volker saw other men, knights and halberdiers, woodsmen and handgunners, staring at him in shock and fear. His fellow Reiksguard, whom he’d been fighting among, edged away from him. His gut churned, but he lifted the bloody axe high and bared his teeth. ‘Fight or die, men of the Empire,’ he snarled. He could feel the god adding his strength to Volker’s voice, making sure he was heard by every human ear on the field of battle. ‘I do not care which, but do it bravely, and do it well. Fight, in the name of Sigmar, who forged our Empire. Fight, in the name of Ulric, who forged our people! Fight and rend the enemy like the wolves who birthed you!’

A northman charged through the press towards him, bellowing incoherently. Volker spun the axe in his hands and brought it down in a two-handed grip, cleaving the barbarian from pate to jowl. He tore the axe free and gestured towards the enemy. ‘Fight, you Unberogens! Fight, you Teutogens, Jeutones and Brigundians, fight, sons of Ulric all! Fight until the Fauschlag quakes and the Dark Gods hide in fear,’ he roared. And they roared with him. He could feel the panic and dismay giving way to anger and determination as he charged towards the foe, his people at his back, and felt Ulric’s contented growl roll through him. Whatever else happened here today, the men of the Empire would not falter.

A new sound pierced the clangour of combat then, even as Volker led his people into battle. It rose from the south, spiralling up into the smoky air, and set the hair on the back of his neck to dancing. Through the madness of battle, he caught sight of green shapes flooding into the plaza. ‘Orcs,’ he muttered, as he slammed his shoulder into a bloodletter’s gut and flipped the daemon over his back. ‘As if things aren’t mad enough.’

Not just orcs, Ulric roared, elves as well. The Incarnates approach. Allies, Wendel Volker. Or if not allies, then those who come to make war on our enemies. He shuddered as the godspark howled within him, joyously this time. War, man, war so as to shake the pillars of heaven itself! See them, Wendel Volker, see how they come, scenting the blood of our prey!

Volker shook his head, trying to ignore Ulric’s howls and concentrate on the fight at hand. He heard someone shout his name, and jerked back as the Chaos warrior charging towards him was suddenly transmuted to gold. He turned and saw Balthasar Gelt riding towards him, the Everqueen sitting behind him on the pegasus’s back. ‘Volker, where is the Emperor?’ the wizard shouted. Volker signalled for his fellow Reiksguard to fall in around Gelt and Alarielle, and the remaining knights did so swiftly.

‘That… thing struck him down. I don’t know where he is, and there’s no chance of finding out, not with the enemy hemming us in,’ Volker said, gesturing towards the spot where Ka’Bandha and Tyrion still fought as Gelt helped Alarielle down from the pegasus. ‘If you’ve got any magic that can find him, now’s the time to use it,’ he continued.

Before Gelt could answer, an ear-splitting screech sounded over the din of the battle. The two Incarnates and Volker turned to see the bloodthirster reel back, away from Tyrion, its axe a twisted ruin. It tossed the smoking weapon aside and reached for Tyrion. It smashed his sword down, and knocked him from his feet. The daemon loomed over the elf, its hammer raised for a killing blow.

‘No,’ Alarielle hissed. She started forwards, but Volker stopped her, even as Ulric howled a warning in his mind.

‘Wait – look!’ he said. A sudden gale sprang up, sweeping across the Ulricsmund. And with it came a charnel stink that hung heavy on the air. A moment later, a swirling black cloud, roiling and pulsing with dark energy, burst out from between two buildings. The street shook beneath the tread of something monstrous as the cloud rolled forwards. Where it passed, combatants fell dead, their skin desiccated and cracked, their weapons and armour crumbling to dust. The cloud of death made no distinction between orcs and elves, skaven and northmen. It claimed them all.

The cloud drew close to Ka’Bandha, who stared at it in bewildered rage. As it got within arm’s reach, it split open to reveal an immense, skeletal figure standing amidst the thinning vapour. Nagash had come, at last. And death came with him.

Volker cringed back as Nagash drew his great, serrated blade and hewed at the bloodthirster. The daemon interposed its hammer at the last moment, and the two baneful weapons connected in a shower of sparks. Nagash gave a death-rattle of frustration and launched another blow. Ka’Bandha swatted it aside with a roar. The two beings slammed together and broke apart, their duel scattering the combatants around them as it shook the street. The remaining windows in the temple shattered as sword and hammer met again, and even the warpflames shied away from the duel.

Through the smoke and dust thrown up by the confrontation, Volker saw a horse galloping towards them, the slumped form of Tyrion on its back. Alongside Alarielle, he caught the elf as he toppled from the saddle. ‘Does he live?’ she asked.

‘I live,’ Tyrion coughed, reaching up to stroke her face. She caught his hand and held it. Volker turned away, uncomfortable. Battle is no place for such things, Ulric growled petulantly.

‘Quiet,’ Volker murmured. He could hear something. Like a rattle of spears and a rumbling of drums, or the snap of distant flames. He turned, to ask Gelt if he’d heard it, and saw that the three Incarnates were staring up at the sky. Gelt was shaking in his saddle, and the elves looked bewildered.

Lightning slammed down, not the blood-red lightning of the Chaos-cursed skies, but something brighter and purer. It struck the dome of the temple, and shook the Fauschlag down to its core. Ka’Bandha and Nagash both shrank back from the light, their fight forgotten in the face of such overwhelming elemental fury.

Tyrion laughed.

‘Welcome back, my friend,’ he said.

Sigmar strode through the dust and the smoke, lightning crawling across his form, Ghal Maraz in his hand. He had cast off the remains of his cloak, and his helmet. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole. Complete.

He had been reborn in the broken body of Karl Franz as the Glottkin had ravaged Altdorf, called to a man of his blood by the winds of magic and fate, and perhaps even necessity. An empire, even a dying one, needed an emperor. I was the first, and so I will be the last, he thought sadly. Then he looked out at the massed ranks of friend and foe, and smiled. Or perhaps I will be the first again, come what may.

But he had not been reborn whole. His power had been split, even as Ulric’s was, between himself and the man called Valten. But what had been in Valten had coiled waiting in the hammer he now held after the youth’s death, waiting for the hand of its true owner. Now, reunited, the power of the heavens was his once more, and Sigmar Unberogen was whole.

He raised his hammer, and it began to glow with a cerulean light. As he passed Deathclaw’s broken form, the griffon stirred and clambered to its feet with a groggy scream. ‘Up, you lazy beast,’ Sigmar murmured, stretching out his hand to stroke its feathered neck. ‘Up. We have a war to win,’ he said. The beast made to follow him, but he waved it back. He strode towards Nagash and Ka’Bandha. The liche met his gaze and, after a moment’s hesitation, inclined his head.

‘UNBEROGEN,’ Nagash said.

‘Monster,’ Sigmar said conversationally. He swept Ghal Maraz out, and Nagash flinched back. ‘Step back, Nagash of Khemri. This one is mine.’ Sigmar stared at Ka’Bandha. The bloodthirster was still warily watching Nagash, even as the liche slunk back. ‘Turn, hellhound.’

Ka’Bandha turned, a smile creeping across its distorted features. The daemon’s nose wrinkled. ‘Ahhhh. I smell the stink of a broken soul. You have defeated the Prince of Damnation.’ The bloodthirster’s smile widened, in its mask of flames. ‘Good. That saves me the trouble.’

‘I didn’t do it for you,’ Sigmar said, stepping through the rubble. ‘He was an obstacle. A stumbling block, set on the path of fate by your masters. They fear me.’ He lifted Ghal Maraz. ‘They fear this.’

‘I do not fear you,’ Ka’Bandha growled.

‘No. But then, you aren’t important. Just another obstacle.’ Sigmar leaned his hammer across his shoulder. ‘You’ve done your part, beast. And now the story goes on, without you.’

‘I will have your skull,’ Ka’Bandha snarled, raising its hammer.

‘No. But I will have yours,’ Sigmar said.

Ka’Bandha roared and swung its hammer down. Sigmar ducked under the blow as it sizzled through the spot his head had occupied, and leapt onto the fallen statue of a forgotten hero. As Ka’Bandha turned, roaring, Sigmar was already in the air, his hammer clasped in both hands. The weapon seemed to glow for just a moment as it descended, and then with a thunderous crash, it slammed home. Ka’Bandha’s roar was cut short as the rune weapon crumpled Chaos-spawned bone and tore steaming flesh. Sigmar landed in a crouch, and Ka’Bandha crashed down beside him, its body already unravelling as the dark spirit of Khorne’s Huntsman fled back to the abattoir of souls from which it had been plucked.

Sigmar rose slowly to his feet. As if that had been a signal, a great cry rose from the ranks of the Chaos horde, and, almost as one, they at last faltered. Some howled and fled, others dropped to the ground and cowered. Some fought on, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the brawling mass of orcs. Even as Sigmar joined the other Incarnates, the remainder of the Chaos horde broke and fled into the city, pursued by the greenskins and ogres. All save for a burly one-eyed orc, and his bodyguard.

Sigmar eyed the beast as it stumped towards them, its broad form suffused with what he knew to be the Wind of Beasts. Well, that explains that, Sigmar thought. He hid a smile as the brute gestured curtly for Malekith to step forward. The Eternity King looked as battle-worn as any of them, and his eyes were hard behind his mask. ‘Grimgor, Boss of the East, demands that he be allowed to challenge the Everchosen,’ he said, his tone making it clear that he would brook no humour at his expense. ‘If you have a problem with it, he wishes it known that he will – ah – crump you.’ Grimgor nodded and glared about challengingly.

‘IF THE BEAST WISHES TO TRY ITS LUCK, LET IT,’ Nagash said. The uproar of battle had faded, and now the only sound was the eerie crackle of the warpflame barrier. Sigmar looked at it, stroking Deathclaw’s neck.

‘He will not try it alone,’ Tyrion said, sheathing his sword. ‘It will take all of us to win this battle.’ He frowned as he said it, and glanced sidelong at Nagash. ‘Even those we would rather not fight beside.’

‘YOUR PREFERENCES ARE OF LITTLE CONCERN TO ME, ELF-PRINCE. I WOULD HAVE THIS AFFAIR DONE WITH,’ Nagash said. The liche stalked towards the barrier, amethyst magics crawling along his limbs as he focused his powers on the wall of daemonic flames.

‘We must aid him,’ Sigmar said. ‘All of you – turn your power upon the barrier. We must act as one, if we are to accomplish what we must.’ As he spoke, he thrust out a hand, and a bolt of lightning streaked from his palm to strike the barrier. One by one, the other Incarnates followed suit, and soon, the warpflames were assailed by the dichotomic onslaught of light and shadow, of life and death, lightning and shards of gold. The flames died back and surged forth, redoubling in strength even as the Incarnates smote them.

Grimgor alone did not unleash the power that had made him its host. Instead, the orc hefted his axe and bellowed a wordless challenge at the pulsating barrier, before rushing in to strike the flames with a wild blow. Sigmar smiled as the barrier collapsed at last, and the orc staggered through. Grimgor spun wildly and decapitated one of the sorcerers responsible for the flame-barrier, even as the backwash of the broken spell consumed the others and reduced them to ash.

Beyond the flames, Sigmar could see the great excavation and the smoke rising from its depths. He could feel the pull of those depths, and his hand tightened on Ghal Maraz’s haft. The Fauschlag gave a shudder, and he stumbled, feeling a hollow sensation in the pit of his gut. He looked around. ‘We must hurry. The artefact has awakened.’

‘How can you tell?’ Tyrion said.

‘How can you not?’ Alarielle said, striding past him. Her face was pinched and tight with pain. ‘It is like a wound which will not heal – the world is screaming in agony.’ She stumbled, and Malekith solicitously caught her arm.

‘THE WORLD IS DYING,’ Nagash said.

‘And that is why we must hurry,’ Sigmar said. He looked around. ‘The fate of the world is in our hands, my friends,’ he said softly. ‘And we cannot afford to fail.’

TWENTY

Teclis opened his eyes as the cavern shook. Great fangs of rock fell down from the roof of the chamber to smash across the ground, and dust choked the air. Whatever was going on above, its echoes were reverberating through the mountain Middenheim was built on. Or perhaps it was not the battle above but the abomination below that was causing the Fauschlag to shudder so.

The warp-artefact shone ominously at the centre of the rough-hewn chamber, its surface rippling with hateful colours. He squinted against its cold light, trying to make out the shapes that dived and swam within it, but gave up after a moment. Sorcerers clustered about it, uttering harsh chants to coax the thing to life.

Learned as he was, he only recognised a few of the incantations being shouted. Even those he knew were archaic, older even than the elves themselves, and had likely not been spoken aloud since the time of the Old Ones. As he watched, a sorcerer toppled over, smoke rising from her mouth and eyes. Her body joined those of the others who had been overcome by the power they were seeking to manipulate.

Teclis tested the bonds that held him moored to the cavern wall. Despite the wide cracks that now ran the width and breadth of the walls and floor, his chains remained taut. His wrists were raw from previous attempts, and blood dripped down his fingers. He did not stop trying, despite the pain. There was nothing else to do but try. Anything else was surrender, and now that he was here, now that it had come to this point, Teclis had discovered wellsprings of what some might have called courage, but which he suspected to be spite.

The spite of a child always in the shadow of his stronger sibling. The spite of a man who had never been trusted by those he called friends and allies, because of his gifts. The spite of one who had been forced to sacrifice everything for a chance at victory, only to find himself falling short yet again, despite his best efforts. And it was the spite of a gamesman without any moves left, as much as anything else, of one who had been outmanoeuvred and outplayed. So Teclis hauled on his chains, strengthened by bile, and anger, and frustration; there was hatred in his heart, and he would not, could not yield. He did not know what he would do if he got loose, but he would do something. Anything.

That he could feel the wellspring of magic which filled the cavern only added to his frustration. It had been drawn from the rock and the air by the thousands of blood sacrifices Archaon had ordered conducted. The bodies of those unfortunates lay strewn about the chamber like a carpet of abused flesh, and the smell of their dying hung thick on the air. The magics roared about like a wind, caught in the pull of the warp-artefact, but Teclis could not manipulate even the slenderest thread, thanks to baleful runes etched into his manacles.

Where are you, brother? he thought. Do you still live? Do the others? Or was it all for nothing? He threaded his thin fingers through the links and turned, trying again, as he had so many times before, to pull the chains free of the rock. As he did so, he looked around, taking in the silent ranks of the Swords of Chaos, and their master on his hell-steed. Archaon stared up at the oily surface of the artefact as if captivated. He had not looked away from it since they’d arrived, save to occasionally check that Teclis was still safely bound.

You should have killed me, Teclis thought, bracing his foot against the wall. Pain screamed through his shoulders and arms, but he ignored it. But you need an audience, don’t you? Like a petulant child, waiting to throw his tantrum until his parents are close by. You need me to see what you have done. His muscles throbbed with weariness and a bone-deep ache, but he strained backwards regardless. Blood welled around the edges of his manacles, and he could not restrain a grunt of pain.

Another quake shook the cavern. Stalactites speared down, shattering on the ground, filling the air with debris. Gold gleamed in the cracks above his head, and not for the first time, he wondered about the true nature of the Fauschlag. Not that it matters, he thought. Yet, the part of him that was still a loremaster remained curious. More stalactites rained down, and several of the chanting sorcerers were crushed into messy pulp. Those closest to them made as if to flee, but returned to their labours at a simple gesture from Archaon. They feared the Everchosen more than a death by falling rock, and Teclis couldn’t blame them.

A faint sound tugged at his ears. Faint, but growing louder. He recognised it instantly, and smiled suddenly, fiercely. Brother. I knew you would not let me down. I knew it!

Teclis licked his cracked and bleeding lips, and cleared his throat. ‘Do you hear that, Everchosen?’ he called out, letting his chains fall.

Archaon did not turn.

Teclis smiled. ‘Do you hear the sound of the drums, Archaon? The crash of steel, the tread of feet? Those are the sounds of battle, Three-Eyed King. You asked me earlier what I saw, Archaon. Well, I saw the future – your future – and it is not pretty.’ He hurled the words at Archaon, taunting him. Words were all he had left, and he intended to expend his quiver.

‘Silence,’ Archaon said. He turned in his saddle, his eyes glowing eerily within his helm.

‘Do you remember what I said, on the ramparts?’ Teclis continued. ‘Sigmar is coming, Archaon. No… he is here. Do you hear him? Do you feel him?’

‘Sigmar is a fairy tale. A myth for children, the mad and the blind,’ Archaon rumbled. ‘Which are you, elf?’

‘I don’t know. Which are you, human?’ Teclis spat. Child, he thought, I am a child. Or mad, but I have seen too much to be blind.

Archaon wheeled his horse about, and his hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. For a moment, Teclis wondered if the Everchosen would strike him down. The chamber shuddered again, and Archaon laughed softly. He glanced over his shoulder, up at the flickering warp-artefact. As Teclis watched in horror, the artefact’s gleaming surface abruptly swelled, doubling in size. Those sorcerers closest to it were sucked into its depths, their screams echoing through the cavern. Vast, pain-wracked faces bulged from within it, pressing against the oily skin of the artefact, and whorls of colour contracted and broke apart in dizzying fashion. Terrible lights gleamed up through the cracks in the cavern floor, and a strange, sickly sweet smell filled Teclis’s nostrils as the air wavered, suddenly full of shapes which were not quite in synch with the world. They moved too swiftly, or too slowly, about him, and he shied away from leering faces and insubstantial gripping talons.

Daemonic whispers filled his mind, clawing at the walls of his soul. The sphere increased in size again, and the whispers grew louder. He thrashed in his chains as the daemons tore at his will and sanity. The end was mere minutes away, he knew. The sphere was growing exponentially, but it could only grow so big before it at last imploded. And when it collapsed, the Fauschlag, and all within it, would be wrenched into the Realm of Chaos, as the rest of the world was slowly, but surely torn apart.

‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ Archaon said, as the wraith-like shapes of daemons swirled about him as if he were the eye of a storm. ‘Here is the doom of all mankind, come round at last.’ He raised a hand, and daemonic shapes coiled about his arm and fingers like serpents. ‘These are the last moments. Glory in them, Teclis of Cothique, for after this, only horror awaits you.’ Archaon spread his arms.

‘A great and beautiful horror awaits us all.’

Wendel Volker watched in awe as the Emperor, Tyrion and the orc, Grimgor, carved a savage path through the horde of squealing skaven. Though the fighting was not confined to them, they bore the brunt of the red work being done in those tunnels. The skaven died in their hundreds, and their bodies carpeted the cold bedrock of the calcified catacombs where they’d chosen to make their stand, but there were always more of them.

Volker, axe in hand, hauled a wounded elf archer to her feet and shoved her back towards her fellows as armoured stormvermin burst out of a side tunnel and charged towards the small force of men and elves. Before he could shout for his fellow Reiksguard, Gelt stepped forwards and gestured sharply, sending a hail of golden shards hammering into the ratkin. He watched in disgust as the newly dead skaven twitched upright a moment later, dragged back to their feet by the will of Nagash. He cut his gaze towards the swirling black cloud which surrounded the Undying King, and felt Ulric snarl within him.

He knew how the god felt. It was one thing to ally with elves, or even orcs, but the liche was something else entirely. He was as wrong as Chaos, in his way, and he cared nothing for the lives of his allies. Nagash ranged ahead of them all, moving swiftly, killing himself a path through the enemy with magic, sword or choking cloud. No skaven monster or war machine could stand against him, and they had faced plenty of both after descending into the Fauschlag. The deeper they went, the more fierce the resistance became.

The Incarnates had been forced to combine their efforts, fighting together for the first time since they had all gathered in Athel Loren. Malekith’s shadow-constructs harried the enemy, driving them squealing into the path of Gelt’s shards or Alarielle’s thorns. Tyrion and the Emperor guarded Grimgor’s flanks as the orc and his Immortulz bulled ahead, taking on the worst the skaven could send against them with enthusiasm rather than strategy.

From behind him, Volker heard the rasping intake of breath that heralded Malekith’s dragon preparing to breathe its reeking smoke into another set of tunnels. The great beast, and Deathclaw, had had a tough time of it at first, for neither beast would be parted from their respective masters and they’d had to squirm and scrape through the upper tunnels. But once those manmade tunnels had given way to the cavernous natural corridors, the dragon had flared its wings and lent its might to the advance.

Tough beast, Ulric murmured, admiringly.

‘Glad it’s on our side,’ Volker said. He spun his axe, and chopped through a spear as it sought his belly. He slashed out, killing the skaven who’d wielded it, and then those behind it. Ulric had some strength yet, and the god lent it freely. Volker was not equal to the Incarnates, but he was more than the man he had been.

The Fauschlag continued to shake and shudder about them, and more than once, Volker heard the scream of a man or elf as they vanished into some crevasse, or were crushed by rocks tumbling from above. The moans of the wounded pursued them all down through the tunnels. Those who were trapped, or could not walk, were left behind to survive as best they could. That which was still the man he had been cringed in horror at the thought, but the wolf in him, the part that was ice, knew that it was necessary. Time was of the essence, and there was none to spare for those who could not march.

A strange light played across the blade of his axe as he swung it and swept the head from a skaven’s shoulders. As the body fell, he saw that the ratmen were fleeing, scuttling for their holes. Do you smell it, Wendel Volker? We are here, Ulric thundered in his head. The wolf-god gave a joyous howl. We are here and our prey is at last within reach! Blood is on the air, and the sounds of battle fill our ears. Rend and slay, tear and smash! Vengeance!

Volker shuddered as the godspark twisted and writhed in agitation within him. Blood poured down his skin as white hairs grew from his pores, and his bones cracked and shifted. He closed his eyes, trying to fight past the pain. Suddenly a cool hand pressed itself against the back of his grimy neck, and he felt a cleansing wind blow through the cold runnels of his soul. He turned and saw Alarielle. The Everqueen smiled sadly, and stepped back as he flinched away from her. ‘I – thank you,’ Volker said. He could taste blood in his mouth. He didn’t know what she had done, but the pain had lessened.

‘Do not thank me,’ the Everqueen said. ‘Fight, son of the Empire. Fight hard, and die well, if it comes to that.’

‘Which it almost certainly will,’ Malekith said. The Eternity King glared at Volker. ‘Whatever lurks within you, man, see that it does not seek to hinder us. We have arrived at the precipice and I would not be sent over the edge by mistake.’ Malekith gestured with his sword, and Volker turned back towards the strange light. He smelt an acrid stink, and Ulric growled, Daemon-spoor. They had come to a wide, high cavern, which rang with the shrieks of daemons and the grinding of shifting rock. And the light as well, which burned and chilled at the same time, the way the sun was said to do in the far north.

Before them was arrayed the full might of the Lord of the End Times. Daemons of every size and description blocked their path to the artefact, and they surrounded a core of black iron – Archaon, Volker knew, and his Swords of Chaos. ‘There are thousands of them,’ someone muttered. Similar mutters ran through the ranks, and hands tightened on weapons as men and elves faced the army of the End Times.

‘More than that,’ Volker said. If I were still a gambling man, I wouldn’t bet a farthing on our chances, he thought. He felt strangely calm, and wondered whether that was Ulric’s doing, or Alarielle’s.

‘No wonder the vermin ran,’ Gelt said hollowly. ‘I wouldn’t want to get caught in the middle of this either.’ The Incarnate of Metal sounded tired, and Volker knew how he felt. Wherever he looked, there were bloody bandages, bound limbs and exhausted faces.

Volker looked to the Emperor, and saw him sitting rigid in Deathclaw’s saddle, his hammer across his lap. He stared across the cavern, and his face was placid, as if he were deep in thought. That was always his problem, Ulric growled. Too much thinking. What is there to think about? The enemy is here, we are here, there is only one choice. There is no more time for cleverness. There is only time now for blood, steel and will!

As if in reply to the wolf-god’s muttering, Grimgor threw back his head and gave a wild bellow, which drowned out even the raucous howling of the gathered daemonic hosts. The orc spread his arms, and his Immortulz gave voice to their own cries. Then, with a rattle of iron, the greenskins charged. ‘Well, that’s torn it,’ Volker said.

The daemons reacted instantly, surging forwards like a sea of infernal fury to meet the Incarnate of Beasts and his warriors. Bloodletters bounded up, hissing Khorne’s praises; horrors of all hues and shades laughed uproariously and hurled torrents of writhing magic without regard for friend or foe; plaguebearers shambled into battle, pox-blades ready; and the handmaidens of Slaanesh danced in, claws snapping. And behind them all came the greater daemons, driving their lesser manifestations on with lash and bellowed order.

The Emperor lifted Ghal Maraz, and, as one, the Incarnates and their remaining forces started to advance. There was no grand strategy or battle-order. There was only the raw press of the melee, strength against strength, and human muscle and will against daemonic caprice. Volker began to run as, around him, knights galloped into battle. Silver Helms and Dragon Princes joined the charge, shouting out the battle cries of fallen Ulthuan and Caledor. Arrows arced overhead, and Malekith’s dragon uttered a scream of rage and anticipation as it launched itself into the air. The dead bodies of skaven, elves and men lurched past Volker as he ran, stumbling into battle with broken blades and empty fists.

Volker ducked under the slash of a bloodletter’s black blade, and hammered his axe into the daemon’s gut. The creature folded over him, its fiery ichor scorching his armour. He tore the axe loose and turned. There, Ulric snarled. There he is – the thief!

He saw the ragged shape of Teclis chained to a wall across the cavern, and he snarled deep in his throat. Volker hefted his axe and began to lope towards the prisoner. Icy strength flooded his limbs, propelling him faster and faster. Daemons lunged at him out of the press of battle, and he hacked them down. He leapt over the body of a burning elf as a salvo of coruscating sorcery enveloped a number of Malekith’s warriors, and chopped through the gangly arm of a pink horror as it sought to snare him.

As he ran, he saw the orcs crash into the wild, pirouetting daemonettes. The shrieking laughter of the latter rapidly turned to screams as the black orcs proved uninterested in anything save slaughter. Volker was forced to leap aside as the pearlescent hoof of a keeper of secrets slammed down nearby. The daemon strutted into battle against Grimgor. The orc launched himself at the creature with a roar, and his axe smashed down into the distorted, bovine skull, filling the air with ichor. The orc’s roar of triumph followed Volker as he continued on, arrowing towards his prey.

A plaguebearer rose up before him, and he smashed his axe into its bulging side, tearing it out the other in a welter of foulness. The daemon sagged, its blade falling from its rubbery fingers as Volker stepped over it. The air was cold around him. He looked down at Teclis, and said, ‘Hello, thief.’ But it wasn’t his voice. It was the deep, rough growl of the godspark within him. ‘Your debt has come due.’

‘Well, wolf-god, if that is who and what you are,’ Teclis murmured, through bloody lips, ‘I am helpless at last. Your prey hangs before you, throat bared. What will you do?’

Volker glared at him. Everything around him, the noise of the battle behind him, the constant keening wail of the shimmering black sphere at the centre of the cavern, all of it fell away, lost in the howling of wolves. He was cold inside and out, and despite the heat of the cavern, his breath frosted on the air. He raised his axe. Teclis closed his eyes.

Volker hesitated. Teclis cracked one eye. The elf smiled. ‘Then, perhaps I am not your prey after all, despite your howling.’ He grimaced, as a spasm of pain rippled through him. ‘Am I your enemy, Wendel Volker? Or are we at last allies in this last hunt?’

Volker shook his head. He lowered his weapon. The Fauschlag shook, and Volker closed his eyes for a moment as the howling grew too much to bear. In his head, he heard the voice of Gregor Martak. You will not die, Wendel Volker. Not until you have done as I command. ‘No,’ he said, softly, as he looked at Teclis. ‘You are not my quarry.’ He turned. He spotted Archaon, galloping through the press of battle, and Ulric howled within him. Yes, yes!

And then, axe in hand, the last servant of the wolf-god went on the hunt.

Sigmar Unberogen saw the battle as if through a prism – scenes and vignettes of heroism and struggle flashed across his eyes. He saw Malekith, once more astride his dragon, shadows flaring about him like a dark cloak, hurtle into battle against two malevolent lords of change. He saw Alarielle, pale and weak, the world’s pain battering at her body and mind, snare a gambolling beast of Nurgle in a web of thorns and tear it to slimy shreds. He saw Gelt unbind the enchantments that bound together daemonic weapons, and loose swarms of flesh-rending shards to tear scores of daemons apart. He saw Nagash, lurid amethyst fires boiling in his eye sockets, stalk forwards, his spells and legion of corpses driving the enemy before him.

Strange times, he thought, as he watched the liche do battle with the world’s foes. There was a strange sort of nobility there, buried beneath the murk and madness. A will that rivalled his own, a drive for victory that was second to none. Nagash would fight to the end, for he could not countenance defeat. As he watched, the liche swung his blade and opened a bloodthirster’s belly, scattering burning ichor through the air.

Deathclaw’s screech brought him back to himself and Ghal Maraz lashed out, smashing the malformed skull of a plaguebearer. Around him, the remaining members of the Reiksguard fought from horseback, or on foot, as they slowly pushed their way towards the warp-artefact. Sigmar watched as the men – his men – fought on, and thought, once, I would have known your names. I would have known who you were, and we would have shared wine and blood. I do not know you now, and I am sorry.

He jabbed his hammer out, and sent a bolt of cerulean lightning smashing into a pack of flesh hounds as they loped towards Grimgor. The orc was oblivious to his peril, being too occupied with trying to shove his axe down the throat of a great unclean one. The beasts were hurled back, or up into the air, their scaly bodies blackened and broken. Saving an orc, Sigmar thought. What would Alaric say? He smiled. He’d probably be annoyed all of his runefangs have gone missing.

The air throbbed as the artefact at the chamber’s heart pulsed, and as Sigmar turned towards it, he saw it expand to almost four times its previous size. Jagged lesions appeared on its outer skin, spreading like stress fractures in a pane of glass. A brilliant white light shone from the growing wounds, dazzling and painful in its intensity. The Fauschlag gave a sudden, jarring lurch, and Sigmar knew that they were out of time.

Great slabs of rock crashed down from above, pulverising zombies, daemons and even a few luckless elves. Sigmar jerked Deathclaw into motion as he saw Tyrion’s horse go down amidst the rain of debris, its leg broken. The griffon barrelled in with a shriek and snatched both horse and rider out of the path of a stalactite. The elf looked up at Sigmar and nodded his thanks as he and his wounded steed were deposited nearby. Sigmar didn’t waste words on inquiring after the elf’s health. Hurt or not, Tyrion would fight on. He urged Deathclaw back towards the centre of the cavern, hoping he might reach the artefact. Though what I’m going to do when I get there is another matter entirely, he thought, as his hammer crashed down on a bloodletter’s flat skull.

He spotted Malekith as he hurtled through the rain of falling stones, and gestured towards Teclis’s bound form, hoping the Eternity King would understand. There was no way his voice would carry through the cacophony of the collapsing cavern. Fortunately, the Incarnate of Shadow seemed to have grasped his meaning, and he nodded tersely as his dragon wheeled about in the air to swoop towards Teclis, ignoring the rocks which bounced off its scaly hide. Sigmar looked around, trying to spot the other Incarnates.

He saw the great unclean one Grimgor had been attempting to throttle struck by an immense chunk of rock, and it burst under the impact, foetid liquid spurting free from the torn prison of unnatural flesh to spatter all who fought around it. The orc dodged aside at the last moment and now stood alone almost in the centre of the cavern, his Immortulz spread out around him, locked in combat with the fallen daemon’s servitors.

As Grimgor turned towards the light of the sphere, Sigmar saw Archaon, still sitting astride his horse before the artefact, raise a fist. The Swords of Chaos lowered their lances as one, and started forwards. The Chaos knights picked up speed, and soon they were galloping towards the orcs, Archaon at their head.

‘Faster, old friend,’ Sigmar shouted, as Deathclaw lunged. But even as the griffon careened towards the centre of the cavern, Sigmar knew he would be too late. Grimgor caught sight of Archaon and roared in delight. The orc charged to meet the oncoming knights, his bodyguard loping alongside him. The greenskins crashed into Archaon’s warriors and carnage ensued. Grimgor beheaded a horse with a wild blow, and dragged a knight from his saddle as the man sought to ride past.

The Incarnate of Beasts swung the hapless Chaos knight like a bludgeon, battering at the latter’s comrades with more enthusiasm than accuracy. He hurled the limp body aside and whirled to meet the charge of the Lord of the End Times. Archaon bore down on the orc, intending to ride him under, but Grimgor was too fast. He slid aside, avoiding the thrashing hooves of the hell-steed, and lunged at its rider. His axe slammed into Archaon’s shield, buckling it and knocking the Three-Eyed King from the saddle.

Sigmar felt a thrill of hope as he watched the orc stalk towards the fallen Everchosen. Of all of them, he had thought the brute the least likely to strike the killing blow. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

‘I will not be felled by a beast,’ Archaon snarled, his voice carrying over the clamour of battle. He surged to his feet, even as Grimgor reached him. ‘I am Archaon, and I am the end made flesh,’ he shouted. He slashed out, nearly opening the orc’s belly. ‘What do you say to that, animal?’

‘Grimgor says shut up and die,’ the orc roared. Axe crashed against sword, as the brute hurled himself at Archaon with wild abandon. Back and forth, they reeled through the melee, trading blows that would have felled dozens of lesser opponents. The orc’s axe scored red lines across Archaon’s armour, and Archaon’s blade drew blood again and again.

Finally, axe met sword and the two weapons became tangled, and their wielders strained against one another, using every ounce of strength that they possessed to hold their ground against their foe. For a long moment they stood, head to head, the Lord of the End Times and the Once and Future Git, the Three-Eyed King and the Boss of the East. Then, with a guffaw, Grimgor’s skull crashed against Archaon’s helm. Sigmar saw the strange, flickering gemstone set in the Everchosen’s helmet shatter, and realised that Archaon was the Three-Eyed King no more. The Everchosen would have to make do with the two he’d been born with – what was left of the Eye of Sheerian speckled the broad expanse of Grimgor’s brow.

The blow broke the stalemate, and the two warriors staggered apart. Archaon reached up to touch the crumpled face of his helm, and he howled in rage. A strange energy suddenly illuminated the blade of his sword and rippled up his arm, and then he was striding in with liquid grace. Grimgor met his advance, and each time they traded blows, black lightning streaked from the point of impact, until at last the orc’s axe succumbed and shivered apart in his hands. The orc staggered back, eyes bulging.

He didn’t stay off balance for long, however, and he tossed aside the remains of the useless weapon and leapt for Archaon, hands reaching for the Everchosen’s throat. Archaon rolled into the collision, and his sword’s point erupted from between Grimgor’s shoulder blades in an explosion of blood. The orc staggered, and slumped with a guttural sigh. His thick fingers clawed uselessly at Archaon’s cuirass as he slid to the ground, and a writhing amber haze rose from his form, to coalesce briefly in the air before collapsing into wisps of light which were drawn towards the shimmering void growing within the warp-artefact.

Grimgor’s warriors uttered a communal howl of fury as their boss fell, and flung themselves at the Swords of Chaos with redoubled ferocity. Archaon beheaded one as the orc clawed at him, and turned to meet Sigmar’s gaze as the latter leaned forwards in Deathclaw’s saddle. The griffon hurtled across the cavern, the Reiksguard galloping in his wake. Behind him, Sigmar heard the death-scream of a dragon, but he could not afford to take his eyes off his enemy. ‘Archaon,’ he roared. ‘Face me, Destroyer.’

Chaos knights hurriedly interposed themselves, and died beneath Deathclaw’s talons. Sigmar smashed Ghal Maraz down on upraised shields and shattered thrusting swords. Axes and swords hacked into the griffon’s limbs and flanks, and its shrieks of pain and rage filled Sigmar’s ears, but he could not afford to retreat, not now, and never again. He caught sight of elves and zombies to either side of him, fighting against the daemons that sought to envelop his desperate spearhead. He heard the crackle of magics, and saw screeching daemons evaporate as they swooped towards him.

Deathclaw gave a great shudder and lunged with a heart-wrenching cry, to slam into a rearing steed. Sigmar was flung from the saddle, as was the rider of the horse, and as he rose to his feet, he saw that he was face to face with Archaon.

Sparks flew as Ghal Maraz smashed against the Slayer of Kings. Lightning rippled along the hammer’s rune-etched head, vying with the dark fire that swirled about the Everchosen’s daemon-blade. Nearby, Deathclaw and Archaon’s steed fought savagely, and the rocky ground was spattered with blood and ichor as the two animals clawed and bit one another. ‘I beat you once, follower of lies,’ Archaon roared, thrusting out a hand. ‘I ripped your lightning from you, and shattered your last redoubt, and I will do it again…’

Sigmar grinned fiercely as nothing happened. Blood streaked his face and beard, but he felt no weakness. Not now. He batted Archaon’s hand aside and slammed Ghal Maraz down on the Everchosen’s pauldron, knocking him back. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ he said. He thrust the hammer forwards like a spear and caught Archaon in the chest. ‘Take my lightning, Everchosen.’

Archaon staggered back. ‘I – what?’

Sigmar tapped his own brow. ‘We’re on an equal footing now, boy. Just me and you.’ He swung the hammer again, and Archaon barely parried it. Each punishing blow bled into the one that followed and Sigmar pushed his opponent back, until Archaon slashed at him, gouging his armour and cutting the flesh beneath. Behind him, the warp-artefact gave another blinding pulse, and the cracks in its surface grew wider. He heard Deathclaw utter a shrill cry, and saw the griffon fall, tangled with Archaon’s mount in its death-throes. The latter gave voice to a final whinny before Deathclaw’s talons tore out its throat, and then both beasts were still. Sadness swept through him as he bashed Archaon’s sword aside and drove his hammer into the Everchosen’s cuirass, turning one of the skull tokens hanging there to powder.

The griffon had known he wasn’t its master, though he wore the man’s skin. It had served him regardless, and it had served him well. He had not known Karl Franz, though he wished he had. That the beast had loved him so, enough to fight on as it had, spoke well of the Emperor. Scattered memories, not his own but those of the body he had taken possession of, filled his mind, and he saw the Imperial Zookeeper hand over an egg to a youth on the edge of manhood. He saw the first faltering steps of the cub, as Karl Franz fed it morsels from his own fingers. And he saw their first battle, and felt a savage joy as the griffon defended the body of its wounded master. I am sorry, he thought. I am sorry for it all.

‘You will fall here,’ Sigmar said, fighting for breath. His strength was ebbing. ‘Whatever else happens, you will fall.’ He felt the ground tremble beneath his feet, and he saw that the warp-artefact was no more – it had been completely consumed by the swirling void it had given birth to. The roiling surface of the sphere ate away at the cavern around it, and a crackling, empty void of white was left in place of the churned rock. His heart sank.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Archaon said. ‘Nothing matters. I’ve won. This world will burn, and something better will rise from the ashes.’ He launched a flurry of blows that Sigmar was hard-pressed to block. He was moving slower now, and the entire right side of his armour was slippery with his own blood. Archaon didn’t seem to tire, but Sigmar, for all his power, knew he wasn’t so lucky. His heartbeat hammered in his ears and his lungs burned, but despite it all, despite the danger, he knew he wouldn’t have traded places with anyone.

This is where I was meant to be, he thought. Despite the fury of battle, he was calm. This is my reason for living, this is why I was born. This moment is mine. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a white-furred shape lope towards him, and he smiled. Hello, old wolf. You told me once I would come to a bad end, and here we are.

Archaon’s sword slipped past his flagging guard and smashed into his cuirass. Sigmar fell back, off balance. He struck the ground hard, and Ghal Maraz was jolted from his hand. He stared up at Archaon, as the latter lifted his blade in both hands.

‘To think, they believed that you could save them,’ Archaon said.

‘To think, I once thought you might do that yourself,’ Sigmar said. Archaon hesitated. Sigmar smiled sadly. ‘Diederick Kastner, son of a daughter of the Empire. You could have been the sword that swept my land free of Chaos forever. In a better world, perhaps you have. But here and now, you are nothing more than another petty warlord.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ Archaon said, still holding his sword aloft.

‘I know you. I saw you born and I saw you die, again and again. I saw your soul twisted all out of shape by the honeyed words of daemons, and I saw you turn your back on me. I saw and I wept, for you, and for what I knew you would do.’

Archaon lowered his blade. ‘No…’

‘You made yourself a pawn of prophecy,’ Sigmar said. ‘You set your feet on this path. The daemons helped, but it was you who walked into the darkness. It was you who fled the light, Diederick.’

‘You are not Sigmar. The gods are all dead, and he was a lie,’ Archaon grated.

‘Are they dead, or are they a lie? Make up your mind,’ Sigmar said. He could see Ghal Maraz’s haft, just out of the corner of his eye. He stretched a hand towards it.

‘You are lying,’ Archaon roared. He lifted his sword, but before he could bring it down, there was a flash of white fur, and then Wendel Volker was there. Axe and sword connected with a screech, and the former exploded in its owner’s hands. Volker staggered, and Archaon’s sword chopped down, through his shoulder and into his chest. Archaon tore his blade free and the Reiksguard fell. Sigmar rolled over and reached for the hammer, but Archaon kicked it aside. ‘No! No more distractions. No more lies,’ Archaon howled. ‘You die now, and your Empire dies with you.’ He made to move after Sigmar, but something stopped him. Sigmar looked down, and saw Volker clinging to Archaon’s legs.

‘I told you once, Everchosen. When a wolf bites, he does not let go,’ Volker croaked. ‘And I told you that you would die here, whatever else.’ Archaon looked down in obvious shock, and Volker grinned up at him. ‘This is my city, man, and you will not take it!’ Ice began to spread across Archaon’s greaves, and he roared in anger and pain as the cold gnawed at him. Then the Slayer of Kings flashed down, and Wendel Volker, bearer of the godspark of Ulric, was no more.

Sigmar saw Volker slump, and heard, deep in his mind, the death-howl of the god he had worshipped in his youth. He had no time to mourn, for even as Archaon tore his blade free of the body of the last of the Reiksguard, the Everchosen pivoted and brought the howling daemon-blade down. But Volker and Ulric’s sacrifice had given him the time he needed to recover, and call up the lightning that was again his to command.

Sigmar thrust his hands up, and felt the blade crash against his palms. Lightning crackled between flesh and the hungry bite of tainted steel, and Sigmar slowly closed his fingers tight about the blade. Then he pushed himself erect, driving Archaon back with every step. The Everchosen tried to push back, but the Emperor was too strong.

And then, with a scream that was of joy as much as it was of pain, the Slayer of Kings shattered in Sigmar’s grip. Archaon reeled as smoking shards of the daemon-blade tore into his armour. Blinded, dazed, he stumbled back. Sigmar lunged forwards and drove his fist into Archaon’s featureless helm, buckling the metal, and driving him back, over the precipice, and into the maelstrom of shadows.

Archaon, Lord of the End Times, vanished into the darkness.

TWENTY-ONE

Sigmar shoved himself to his feet and, Ghal Maraz in hand, backed away. The sphere shuddered like a sick animal. A moment later, it shattered and collapsed in on itself, leaving a swirling rift of energy in its place. The white had become black, and it hurt Sigmar’s eyes to look upon it. Howling winds sprang up, buffeting all those who remained in the chamber and pulling them towards the writhing void. Sigmar saw that he and the other Incarnates, along with Teclis, were the only living beings in the cavern; every elf and human who’d descended into the depths with them was dead. Sadness warred with relief. Better death than what would have awaited them in the void. The powers of the Incarnates protected them from the energies now filling the cavern, but mortals would have been swept away within moments of the rift’s explosion.

All around him, the remaining daemons began to shudder and come apart. Their flesh ran like melted wax, and they were pulled, drop by drop, into the maw of the void. The fitful pulses which had marked the sphere were gone, replaced by an ominous rumble whose intensity grew with every passing moment. Sigmar turned away from the rift and began to force his way towards the other Incarnates, fighting the pull of the wind with every step.

The rock beneath his feet ran like water in a whirlpool, its hue and shape changing from one second to the next. Leering faces formed in the shifting stone, and vanished as soon as he looked at them. All around the chamber, the laws of nature were coming undone as the raw stuff of Chaos leaked into the world through the rift.

‘We were too late,’ Malekith snarled as Sigmar reached them. The Eternity King had to shout to be heard over the wind. He supported Teclis, and one of the mage’s arms was flung over his shoulder.

‘No,’ Gelt shouted. ‘No, we have not lost, not yet.’

‘What can we do?’ Alarielle screamed. She leaned against Tyrion, and Sigmar could tell from her face that she felt every single one of the torturous changes the cavern was undergoing. ‘It is but a trickle now, but it is growing stronger with every passing moment. We cannot hope to contain it!’

‘WE MUST. WE WILL,’ Nagash thundered, facing the void. ‘THIS WORLD IS MINE. NAGASH WILL NOT FALL. NAGASH CANNOT DIE. I WILL NOT. NOT AGAIN.’

‘He’s right,’ Sigmar said. He looked at Teclis. ‘If we combine our magics, as we did against the warpflame barrier, will it be enough?’

‘I – I do not know,’ Teclis said, shaking his head. The elf struggled to stand on his own, and pushed away from Malekith. He held his staff and leaned against it. ‘The Winds of Aqshy and Ghur, they are lost…’

‘They are not lost,’ Tyrion said. ‘I – we – can all feel them still. They are here, with us.’ He looked at his brother. ‘We must try, brother. Else what was it all for?’

Teclis stared at his brother in silence for a moment, his robes rippling in the shrieking wind. Then he nodded. ‘You are right, brother. You are always right.’

‘Except when I’m wrong?’ Tyrion said, smiling.

‘Even then,’ Teclis said, grinning. He shook his head. ‘You know what to do. The winds know their task, and they will guide you in the doing of it. I will try to bend Ghur and Aqshy to it as well. Even without hosts, they will be of some use.’

Sigmar looked at the others, and then, as one, they spread out, moving to the edge of the void. As they approached the roaring maelstrom, each Incarnate summoned the last vestiges of their power, and flung it forth, seeking to cage the uncageable. Sigmar groaned as the lightning crackled from him to spend its fury on the swirling rift. The void sought to draw the power from him, as Archaon had done at Averheim, and it took every ounce of his remaining strength to prevent it. He clutched Ghal Maraz in both hands and drew the lightning tight, focusing his will through the ancient hammer.

He saw Teclis set his staff, at the centre of the line, and begin to draw the Winds of Fire and Beasts into himself. He was not a suitable host for either, let alone both, and the winds struggled against him. Sigmar watched helplessly as the elf’s flesh began to boil and peel. What Teclis was attempting was a death sentence, but they had no other choice. Our lives for that of the world. That’s a fair bargain, he thought. He gritted his teeth against a sudden surge of pain. A light was growing in the chamber, as each of the winds was pitted against the audient void. And then, against all probability, the rift began to shrink.

We’re doing it, Sigmar thought. Gods of my fathers, wherever you are now, help us last just a little longer. Give us all strength. His body shuddered, and he felt as if the meat of him might separate from his bones. Smoke rose from the head of Ghal Maraz as he poured bolt after bolt of celestial lightning into the yawning abyss.

Something flickered, just out of the corner of his eye. He twitched his head to the side, and his eyes widened as he saw a familiar shape detach itself from the dark at the edges of the cavern and rush forwards silently. Sigmar flung out his hand. ‘No!’

Balthasar Gelt turned at Sigmar’s cry, but his reply was lost as Mannfred von Carstein’s sword erupted from his chest. The wizard was lifted off his feet by the vampire’s blow, and a beam of golden light sprang from his limp frame and vanished soundlessly into the void. ‘Mine,’ Mannfred howled. ‘The power will be mine. Even as this world is mine.’

Teclis, seeing the loss of Chamon, stretched out a hand, as if to grasp the Wind of Metal and haul it back from the abyss, but the effort was too much for him. Sigmar watched in horror as Teclis of Cothique, High Loremaster of Ulthuan, was ripped apart by the triumvirate of magical winds, and reduced to swirling ash. Even as Teclis perished, the rift gave an ear-splitting shriek and, in a flare of inky black light, tore free of the Incarnates’ control. Sigmar was flung back across the cavern, and he struck the ground hard. The other Incarnates had suffered similar fates, or had retreated at the first convulsion of the rift.

As Sigmar picked himself up, he saw that only Mannfred and Nagash were left standing next to the rift, and the vampire gesticulated at the liche, his feral features twisting in triumph. ‘Vlad told me to pick a side, and I have, master. Better to be the right hand of anarchy, than the slave of Nagash. Walach was right, the blood-soaked fool. Aye, and Kemmler as well. You are nothing but a disease, Nagash… a plague on all the world, and with this power, I shall drive your midnight soul into the void forever. And it shall be me who rules this world, and rides its corpse into eternity. The world shall have a new Undying King, and you shall be forgotten!’

The vampire spun towards the rift, and, as Teclis had, he thrust out his hands, as if to draw the winds to him. Instead, however, it was the raw substance of the rift which answered his call. It washed over him, and Mannfred’s laughter degenerated into a scream as he staggered back, his flesh smoking.

The rift flared and Sigmar added his screams to those of Mannfred, as did all of the remaining Incarnates. The void tore the winds loose from their hosts and drew them into itself. Sigmar thrashed as the celestial magics of Azyr were dragged from him a second time, and sucked into the nightmare abyss. He collapsed, his body trembling, and his strength gone. He saw the other Incarnates fall, one by one.

Nagash was the last. For long moments, the Undying King stood unbowed against the howling void and his own dissolution, as the magics that had given him form slowly unravelled. He fought against the void, as if determined to wrench back the Wind of Death through sheer will. Then, at last, the Great Necromancer threw back his head and screamed desolately one final time before he suffered Teclis’s fate and was torn apart by the swirling energies.

As the ashes of his former master were swept into the void, Mannfred staggered blindly away from the rift, clawing at his seared flesh. He ranted and railed in a language Sigmar did not recognise, and called out for people who were not there. Sigmar tried to push himself to his feet, but he lacked the strength. He heard the scrape of steel on stone, and turned to see Tyrion lurch to his feet, sword in hand.

Mannfred did not notice Tyrion’s approach until the last moment, and as he whirled, fangs agape, Tyrion slammed his sword up through the vampire’s belly and into his black heart. Mannfred screamed and clawed at Tyrion’s arms as the elf lifted him off his feet. Sunfang flared as the magics forged into the blade awoke, and Mannfred thrashed as he burned to ashes from inside out. Tyrion jerked his blade free, and what was left of Mannfred von Carstein collapsed into ashes, to join those of Teclis and Nagash in the void.

As Tyrion stepped back, the cavern gave a great crack. The walls shifted and sickly yellow blood dripped down from the cracks. Vast sections of the cavern floor fell away, into nothingness. Boulders and stalactites fell like rain. Sigmar looked up as a great spill of rock tumbled down towards the Everqueen, and he shouted to Tyrion, who whirled about, but too late. The Everqueen would have perished there, had Malekith not lunged forward and thrown her clear, towards Tyrion’s reaching arms. The Eternity King vanished amidst the thundering downpour of rock a moment later.

Sigmar shoved himself to his feet, and took a staggering step towards the fallen rocks. If there was even a chance that Malekith might be saved, he intended to try. But as he drew close to the expanding edge of the rift, a dark shape rose out of the void and smashed into him.

He turned as Archaon lurched into him, the Everchosen’s fingers scrabbling for his throat. The Lord of the End Times roared incoherently as he battered at Sigmar, his words lost in the howl emanating from the ever-expanding rift. Sigmar smashed him down with Ghal Maraz, but he was on his feet a moment later, reaching out to grab the haft of the hammer. The two men struggled for a moment on the edge of the void.

Then, they were gone, lost amidst the swirling darkness.