The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 11

  Martak shook his head. ‘The western flank is collapsing. Daemon-fire is sweeping the square there, and I am needed.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘I was coming to ask for your help.’

  Valten shook his head. He hesitated, and for a moment, Martak saw not the Herald of Sigmar, but the callow young blacksmith Huss had introduced him to, so many months ago. ‘It appears our journey is coming to an end,’ Valten said, fighting to be heard over the noise of battle. ‘Since Luthor vanished, I have relied on your advice more than once. It has been a pleasure to call you friend, Gregor.’ Valten bent low and reached out his hand. It was Martak’s turn to hesitate. Then, he clasped forearms with the Herald of Sigmar. Valten smiled and straightened in his saddle. ‘I do not think we will meet again, my friend.’

  Then he turned, jerked on his horse’s reins, and galloped up the steps to meet the coming threat. Martak hesitated again, for just a moment. Then, with a snarl, he turned to the west. He ignored Greiss’s shouts as he began to push his way along, moving more swiftly than a man ought. He ran smoothly, his steps guided by Ulric, and in seemingly no time at all he was bulling through the ranks towards the daemon-threatened stretch of the line. As he moved, he reached out with his mind, snagging the errant winds of magic and drawing them in his wake.

  I grow weak, son of Middenheim, Ulric murmured. Soon my spark shall gutter out, and you will crumble to cold ash.

  ‘Then we’d best take as many of the enemy with us as we can,’ Martak growled. ‘Or would you rather crawl into a hole and die?’ He heard the indignant snap of the god’s jaws and bared his teeth in satisfaction. He shoved aside a pair of spearmen, and found himself staring at a hellish inferno of dancing, multi-coloured flames. Screams of terror filled the air as men burned and died, or worse, changed. Daemons leapt and shimmered beyond the flames, cackling and chanting.

  As the line of soldiers around him fell back, Martak spread his arms, calling up what strength Ulric could spare him. The heat from the fires faded, and with a single, sharp gesture, Martak snuffed them entirely. He felt his body swell with power as he drew the winds of magic into himself, bolstering the strength of the fading godspark.

  Martak threw back his head and howled out incantation after incantation. Daemons screamed as ice-coated spears of amber spitted them. Others were flash-frozen, or torn to shreds by icy winds. The daemonic assault faltered in the face of the combined fury of man and god, and for a moment, Martak thought he might sweep every daemon from the field.

  Ulric howled a warning and Martak twisted around, freezing the air into a solid shield over him with a sweep of his hands as a wave of sorcerous fire lashed down at him from above. A gigantic avian shape crashed down, nearly crushing Martak. The wizard hurled himself aside, trying not to think about the men who still writhed beneath the immense daemon’s talons. He scrambled to his feet.

  Two pairs of milky, possibly blind eyes regarded him, and two cruel beaks clacked in croaking laughter. The daemon’s two long, feathered necks undulated as its vestigial, yet powerful wings snapped out, casting the wizard into their shadow. He recognised the beast, though he had never seen it before. Kairos Fateweaver, dual-voiced oracle of the Changer of Ways. ‘Ulric, man and god. We see you, wolf-god. We see you, cowering in this cave of blood and meat. Come out, little god… Come out, and accept the judgement of fate,’ the daemon rasped, its voices in concert with itself.

  Martak felt Ulric twitch within him. Even a god wasn’t immune to accusations of cowardice. ‘You are not fate,’ he roared, though whether they were his words or Ulric’s, he didn’t know. ‘You are its slave, as are we all.’ Frost swirled about his clenched fingers. ‘You are but the merest shard of a mad, broken dream. A cackling, senile shadow which schemes against itself because it is too myopic to recognise the wider cosmos.’ He flung his hands out, releasing a blast of wintry power.

  Kairos staggered, cawing angrily. The daemon’s great wings flapped and its twin beaks spat sizzling incantations. The air about Martak took on a greasy tinge and strange shapes swam through it, passing through the fleeing soldiers as if they were not there. Motes of painful light swirled about, emerging and twisting about an unseen aleph.

  ‘We have seen what awaits us all, wolf-god. It is a beautiful thing, and hideous, and it will unmake all and fashion it anew. The earth will crack, the skies will burn and all will cease, before beginning again. Why do you struggle and snap so?’ the Fateweaver croaked.

  A strange howling grew in Martak’s ears and he staggered as unseen hands plucked at him, trying to draw him into the Realms of Chaos. If he had been as he was, he would have been lost. But he was more than he had been. And he was not alone.

  Ulric roared, and Martak roared with him. His muscles bunched and he hurled himself away from the unseen hands. Claws of amber formed about his hands and he raked them across the Fateweaver’s wrinkled chest. The raw stuff of magic poured from the wounds and the daemon snarled. Twin beaks snapped at Martak, who stumbled back. ‘What have you done, cur?’ the Fateweaver cawed. ‘You were supposed to die. We saw it!’

  The daemon hefted its staff and swung it in a furious arc. Martak, his muscles filled with the power of the last god of mankind, caught the staff in mid-swing. He grinned into the teeth of the daemon’s fury. ‘What you saw, and what is, are not necessarily the same thing,’ he said. Frost spread from his fingers, curling up the length of the staff. The Fateweaver squawked as it tried to rip its staff free of his grip. The unnatural flesh of its arms began to blacken and peel away from brass bones.

  With a single, thumping beat of its wings, the Fateweaver hurled itself skywards. It paused for a moment, wings flapping, and glared down at Martak. Then, with a sound which might have been a frustrated scream, or a laugh of contempt, or even perhaps both, the Fateweaver vanished.

  Martak stared upwards for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze to the remaining daemons. The creatures, deprived of their master and of their advantage, cowered back. He gestured sharply and jagged chunks of ice and swirling snow struck the closest of the creatures, as the soldiers of the Empire gave a great shout and surged forwards, their courage renewed. Martak stood unmoving as the line passed him, driving into the daemonic host. Ulric growled softly in his head as Martak turned east, where he knew that even at that moment, Valten was trying to drive back the skaven.

  The god sounded as weak as Martak felt, and he knew that neither of them had much time left. But he was determined to make it count for something. Though the City of the White Wolf and its god might die today, the Empire would be preserved. Whatever else happened, Martak, and the spark of godly fury within him, could do that much.

  The explosion had come as another unpleasant surprise in a day already full to the brim of them. Wendel Volker fought in the centre of the Empire lines, alongside Brunner and a few other familiar faces, including a number of dismounted Reiksguard and Knights of the Black Bear. They acted as a steel core to anchor the centre, but they rapidly became an island in a sea of panic as the Grand Battery ceased to exist and Archaon’s forces attacked with renewed vigour. Volker cursed as crossbowmen fled past him, seeking the dubious safety of the temple. He thought he saw Fleischer among them, moving as quickly as her legs could carry her. He could hear screams echoing behind him, and the rising chitter of skaven.

  A smaller explosion followed the first, and a keg of black powder, wreathed in flames, soared overhead. He looked up, watching it arc over the square. When it exploded, he instinctively raised his shield, and left himself open to a bludgeoning blow that catapulted him off his feet. He slammed into another knight, and they both fell in a rattling tangle. Wheezing, Volker looked up as a burly northman, wearing the shaggy hide of an auroch, swept his stone-headed mace out and drove another Reiksguard to his knees. The knight wobbled and was unable to avoid the next blow, which sent him spinning head over heels into the air. The northman spread his arms and roared, ‘Where is the Herald of Sigmar? Gharad
the Ox would crush his delicate bones in the name of the Lord of Pleasure!’

  ‘Over there somewhere,’ Volker coughed, forcing himself to his feet. ‘Why not go look for him?’ He was shoved aside as the man he’d slammed into got to his feet and lunged towards the Ox. The stone mace came down and pulverised the knight’s head, helmet and all. Volker stared at the gory ruin of the man’s skull for a moment, and then back up at Gharad. ‘All right, then,’ he muttered, raising his sword.

  The mace whipped out and Volker stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow. As the weapon whistled past his chin, he brought his sword down on the brute’s arm. The blade chopped through meat and muscle, but became lodged in the bone. Gharad howled in pain, and his mace fell from his fingers. The northman clawed at Volker’s throat with his good hand, while the latter tried to pry his weapon free.

  Their struggle was interrupted by the sound of horns and the thunder of hooves. Volker dragged his sword free and hurled himself backwards as, with a mournful howl, the Fellwolf Brotherhood and the Knights of the White Wolf charged. Fleeing state troops were ridden down by the templars of Ulric as they galloped through the disintegrating centre line and smashed full-tilt into Archaon’s advance. Empire and Chaos knights met with a mighty crash. Armoured steeds slammed together, crushing limbs and sending horses rearing in panic as their riders hacked and hammered at one another.

  Volker scrambled away from the stomping hooves of the horses, one arm wrapped around his chest. Pain shot through him with every step, and it was hard to breathe, but he had to get clear of the press. Even his armour wouldn’t save him from being trampled to death. He’d seen men die that way, and he had no wish to share their fate.

  But, as he made to extricate himself from the situation, a large hand fastened itself around his ankle. He looked down, into the grinning, battered features of his opponent. ‘Gharad is angry. He has been stomped on by many horses, little man,’ the northman said, as he yanked Volker off his feet. ‘Let Gharad show you how it feels.’ Gharad slammed a bloody fist down on Volker’s chest, denting his cuirass and driving all of the air from his lungs.

  The northman tore Volker’s gorget loose and flung it aside before fastening his thick fingers around Volker’s throat. Gharad hunched over him as horses stomped and whinnied around them. Volker clawed at his opponent’s wrists, trying to break his grip. Gharad grinned down at him. ‘Goodbye, little man. Gharad the Ox has enjoyed killing–’ The northman’s eyes crossed, and his grin slipped. With a sigh, he slumped over Volker, revealing a falchion, three throwing daggers and a hand-axe embedded in his back.

  Volker heaved the dead weight off him, and looked up at Brunner. ‘Thanks,’ he gasped, as he rubbed his aching throat.

  ‘Come on,’ Brunner said, jerking his falchion free of the fallen northman.

  ‘What?’ Volker said, shoving himself to his feet. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Cut off the head, and the body dies,’ Brunner spat. There was a dark stain on his side, and he grimaced as he pressed a hand to it. He jerked his chin towards Archaon. The Three-Eyed King was impossible to miss, despite the confusion. As they watched, he cut down a howling knight. ‘Kill him, we get out of this alive.’

  ‘I don’t like our odds,’ Volker wheezed. Something in his chest scraped. The blow from the northman’s mace had, at the very least, cracked his ribs.

  ‘I fought my way across half the Empire, through the walking dead, beastmen and worse things, all to get here,’ Brunner growled. ‘Never tell me the odds.’

  Volker shook himself and looked around. The bulk of the Empire troops still held their place, despite the massed ranks of the enemy that pressed against them. But Volker had commanded enough men to see that the Middenheimers were close to collapse. The halberdiers still hacked and thrust at their enemies with grim resolve, but exhaustion was taking its toll, and Greiss and his fur-clad maniacs charging through the centre of their own lines hadn’t helped matters. The enemy, on the other hand, seemed tireless, and without number. Every northman who fell was quickly replaced by two more; but there were no fresh troops to throw into the gaps growing in the defenders’ ranks. What reinforcements there were, were busy trying to hold off the skaven pouring out of the Temple of Ulric.

  That fact, in the end, made Volker’s decision for him. If Archaon fell, the Chaos attack might disintegrate, easing the pressure on the embattled defenders. Evidently Brunner thought the same. He gestured with his sword. ‘By all means, lead the way.’ You lunatic, he added, in his head. Brunner smirked, as if he’d heard Volker’s thoughts, and turned.

  The bounty-hunter moved through the press of battle like a shark. His falchion snaked out left and right, cutting through legs or chopping into bellies. Volker did his best to keep up, smashing aside tribesmen with his recovered shield and sword, despite the pain in his chest. At times, through the smoke that now obscured most of the square, he caught sight of the battle going on atop the steps of the Temple of Ulric. Valten was there, his golden armour reflecting the light of the fires as he employed Ghal Maraz with lethal efficiency. The Herald of Sigmar had ploughed into the ratmen like a battering ram, and broken, twitching bodies flew into the air with every swing of his hammer.

  ‘There he is,’ Brunner shouted. He grabbed Volker and gestured with his bloody falchion. Volker peered through the smoke and saw their quarry. Archaon’s horse reared as the Three-Eyed King chopped through a bevy of thrusting spears.

  ‘What do we do?’ Volker said.

  Brunner smiled, pulled one of the pistols from his bandolier and fired. To Volker’s surprise, Archaon tumbled from his saddle. ‘What–?’ Volker said.

  ‘Wyrdstone bullet,’ Brunner said, tossing aside the smoking pistol. A moment later, the bounty-hunter was ducking past the daemonic steed’s flailing hooves, and arrowing towards its rider. Volker tried to follow him, but he found himself preoccupied by the attentions of one of the Chaos knights who made up Archaon’s bodyguard. He caught a hoof on his shield, and felt a shiver of pain run through him. His sword sliced out, driving back a horse and rider. He saw Brunner’s falchion flash down, only to be intercepted at the last moment by Archaon’s blade.

  Archaon forced Brunner back, and rose to his full height. Green smoke rose from the hole in his armour where Brunner’s bullet had struck home. To his credit, the bounty-hunter didn’t seem impressed. He lunged, and their blades came together with a barely audible screech. Volker saw Brunner’s free hand flit to his vambrace, and then something sharp flashed and Archaon roared. The Lord of the End Times stepped back and groped for the throwing blade that had sprouted from between the plates of his cuirass. Brunner drew another pistol, his last, and fired. Or tried to, at least. There was a puff of smoke, followed by a curse from Brunner, and then Archaon lunged forwards, thrusting his sword before him like a lance.

  The tip of the sword emerged from Brunner’s back and he was lifted off his feet. Archaon held him aloft for a moment, and then, with seemingly little effort, swept the sword to the side and slung the bounty-hunter off. Brunner hit the street hard, with a sound that made Volker cringe inside his armour. He took a chance and darted through a gap in the press of battle, ducking a blow which would have removed his head.

  Archaon was already climbing back into the saddle when Volker reached Brunner. He sank down beside the man, but he could see that it was already too late. And not just for Brunner – he heard a roar from behind him, and turned. He saw Archaon catch a blow from Axel Greiss, Grand Master of the White Wolves, on his shield. The Grand Master recoiled, readying himself for another swing as his stallion bit and kicked at Archaon’s own mount. The White Wolves duelled with Archaon’s knights around them.

  Archaon swung round in his saddle, and his sword chopped down through plate mail, flesh and bone, severing Greiss’s arm at the elbow. Greiss’s scream was cut short by Archaon’s second blow, which tore through the old knight’s torso in a w
elter of gore. Volker looked away as Greiss’s body slid from the saddle.

  He looked down at Brunner. He realised that he’d never seen the other man’s face in the little time they’d known each other. They hadn’t been friends. Merely men in the same place at the same time, facing the same enemy. Even so, Volker felt something that might have been sadness as he looked down at the dead bounty-hunter.

  Panic began to spread through the ranks of the Empire almost immediately. The troops in the centre had held their ground against the worst Archaon could throw at them, but the death of Greiss was too much, even for the most stalwart soldier. Volker couldn’t blame them. He knew a rout in the offing when he saw one, however, and he was on the wrong side of it, cut off from the obvious route of retreat by the fighting. Knots of defenders still battled on, most notably around the standards of the Order of the Black Bear and the Gryphon Legion, and to the east and west the flank forces still held, but the line had been broken.

  Volker looked around desperately, trying to spot an avenue of escape. If he could reach someone – anyone – he could organise a fighting withdrawal. At the very least, they might buy themselves a few more hours. Averheim, he thought. Save as many as I can – get to Averheim. The Emperor is at Averheim. The Emperor will know what to do.

  ‘Yes, he will,’ a voice growled. Volker looked up into a pair of yellow eyes. ‘Up, boy,’ Gregor Martak growled. His furs were scorched and blackened, and his arms and face were streaked with blood. Volker knew, without knowing how, that it was not merely the wizard who regarded him, but something else as well. Something old and powerful, but diminished in some way. The wizard hauled him to his feet with ease, sparing not a glance for Brunner’s body. Martak’s eyes narrowed. ‘Volker,’ he rasped. ‘One of Leitdorf’s lot, from Heldenhame.’