The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 3

  Valten had given some version of this same speech several times since the arrival of Archaon’s forces outside the walls. The streets were thick with panicked citizens, and frightened refugees crowded every temple and tavern. But where Valten passed, Ghal Maraz balanced across his broad shoulders, calm ensued. He spoke to crowds and individuals alike, with no preference or bias for province or station. His voice was measured, his words soothing. Be at peace, for I am here, and where I stand, no evil shall prevail, Martak thought as he trudged out towards the vast steps of the temple. It was an old saying, attributed to Sigmar. From what little Martak knew of the man behind the myth, he doubted the veracity of the phrasing, though not the intent.

  He watched the tall, broad figure of Sigmar’s Herald speak words of comfort to the massive crowd of soldiers and refugees occupying the steps, and felt the burden on his heart lift, if only slightly. Valten was taller than any man Martak had met, but he moved with a grace that an elf would have envied. He’d grown a beard since the fall of Altdorf, and now looked more at home in Middenheim than even an old wolf like Greiss.

  That was the trick of him, Martak had learned. Valten simply… fit. Wherever he went in the Empire, he found a home. Talabeclanders, Averlanders, Middenlanders, they all claimed Valten as one of their own. He spoke their dialects, he knew their history; he could even sing their songs. It was as if the burly, bearded young warrior were the Empire made flesh and bone. He was everything that was good and pure about the land and its people incarnate.

  As he spoke, Valten seemed to shine with an inner radiance that warmed a man better than any fire. His voice rose and fell like that of a trained orator, and he spoke with a passion that would have put even the late Grand Theogonist, Volkmar, to shame.

  Martak paused in the entrance to the temple, so as not to interrupt the speech. The great iron-banded doors had been flung wide at the start of the ratmen’s siege, and they yet remained open, welcoming any who sought sanctuary. The entrance itself was a vast stone archway carved in the shape of a wolf’s upper jaw, complete with great fangs, and as it rose over him he thought again of the shadow-shape he’d seen on the battlements, and shivered. It hadn’t been a daemon; that much he was sure of. While the Flame of Ulric burned, no daemon could set foot inside Middenheim.

  He glanced at the Flame, where it crackled in the centre of the immense temple rotunda. The fire burned silver-white, casting its light throughout the main chamber of the temple, warming the crowd and illuminating the enormous bas-reliefs depicting Ulric’s defeat of the bloodwyrm, his breach of the stormvault and countless other deeds of heroism performed by the wolf-god. More and more people had begun to seek the comfort of its presence as the unnatural darkness fell. Martak couldn’t fault them for it. It was the embodiment of Ulric’s strength and rage, and for that reason it provided a beacon of hope to the wolf-god’s chosen people. It was said that should the fire go out, winter unending would grip the world.

  As the thought crossed his mind, he caught sight of a low, lean shape prowling through the legs of the crowd. The shadow-wolf had followed him, it seemed. Its yellow gaze met his own briefly and then it vanished into the forest of humanity. He was about to follow it, when he heard a voice say, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Martak turned, and looked up at Valten. He grunted and shrugged. ‘One fire is much like another, to one used to doing without.’

  ‘I grew up in a forge,’ Valten said, simply. ‘There’s a strange sort of beauty in fire, I think. It is all colours and none, it provides comfort and light, but can kill or blind the unwary. A tool of both creation and destruction… rather like a hammer.’ He hefted Ghal Maraz for emphasis. ‘Sigmar built an empire with this weapon, and destroyed the works of his enemies.’

  Martak smiled sourly. ‘Very pretty. Will that homily go in your next speech?’

  Valten chuckled. ‘I doubt there’ll be time for one. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to tell me that you’re about to go below.’ He looked at Martak, and the wizard shifted uncomfortably. Valten had a way of staring right into a man’s soul. He never judged what he saw there, though that only made the feeling worse.

  ‘Yes, it’s time,’ Martak said, leaning on his staff. ‘Scouts have reported that there are ratmen massing in the depths. And Archaon’s rabble didn’t walk all the way here just to sit outside and look menacing.’

  ‘I know,’ Valten said. He looked up, and closed his eyes. ‘It’s almost a relief.’

  ‘Not exactly how I would put it,’ Martak said.

  Valten smiled. He looked at the wizard, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Then, you’re a gloomy old bear, and there’s no denying it.’

  Martak snorted. ‘And you’re a cheerful lamb, is that it?’

  Valten’s smile faded. ‘No. No, I can feel the weight of this moment, Gregor, as well as you. It has pressed down on my soul and my mind since I first swung my father’s hammer in anger at the Auric Bastion. It has sought to forge me into the shape it wishes, the shape it requires, but sometimes… I do not think it will succeed.’ He dropped his hand and hefted Ghal Maraz. ‘This is part of it, I think. Burden and blessing in one,’ he said, turning the ancient warhammer in his hands. ‘Sometimes, this hammer is as light as a feather. Other times, I can barely lift it. I am not certain that it is my hand which is meant to wield it.’ He looked at Martak. ‘Sometimes I wish Luthor were still here, to tell me that I am wrong, and that my course is set.’ He smiled sadly. ‘No offence, Gregor.’

  ‘None taken,’ Martak said, waving aside the apology. ‘I wish Huss were here as well. And while we’re wishing, I’ll add the Emperor, Mandred Skavenslayer and Magnus the Pious. Because Taal knows that we could use them now.’

  Valten’s smile turned fierce. ‘We shall just have to act in their place, my friend. We can do no less. Middenheim stands. The Emperor and Graf Boris charged me to keep this city and her people safe, and I will do so or die in the attempt.’

  Martak was about to reply, when he felt something stir in him. He clutched his head, and heard a great cry which seemed to echo up from every stone in the temple. It was as if a legion of wolves had howled as one, and then fallen silent. Valten grabbed him as he stumbled. ‘Gregor, what is it, are you–’

  Wordlessly, Martak moaned. He felt as if there were something missing in him, as if someone had carved a portion of his heart out. He heard Valten gasp, and blinked blearily as he tried to clear his head. As he forced himself erect, he saw that the crowd had moved back from the Flame of Ulric. Men and women were wailing and moaning in fear. Valten raised his hands, trying to calm the growing panic. Martak pushed away from him and staggered towards the Flame, staring at it in disbelief.

  As he watched, the Flame of Ulric guttered, flickered and died. The chamber was plunged into darkness, and the crowd began to stream away, seeking safety elsewhere. He heard the screams of the trampled, the wailing of lost children, and Valten’s voice, rising above it all, trying vainly to impose order on the chaos. And beneath it all, beneath the cries and the shouts, beneath the fear… laughter. The laughter of the Dark Gods as Middenheim’s hope faded, leaving behind only ashes.

  Martak closed his eyes. Something itched at the back of his mind, like someone speaking just at the edge of his hearing, but he couldn’t catch it for the laughter that echoed in his head. He gripped his staff so tightly that the wood creaked in protest. He felt cold and hot all at once, and his skull felt two sizes too small as images crashed across the surface of his mind’s eye. There were shapes squirming in the dark behind his eyes, impossibly vast and foul, and they were scratching eagerly at the roof of the sky and the roots of the earth. He saw a shadowy figure confronted by wolves of ice, and heard the moan of a god as the Flame dimmed. He heard the bray of horns and the rumble of drums, and felt his guts clench in protest as the moment he’d feared came round at last.

  A hand gripped his shoulder,
shaking him out of his fugue. ‘Gregor – it’s time. The enemy are advancing,’ Valten said. ‘I must go to the walls.’

  ‘And I must go below,’ Martak croaked. He looked at Valten, and as he did, the daemonic laughter crowding his thoughts suddenly fell silent. There were some things that even daemons could not bear to look at. ‘The gods go with you, Herald.’

  ‘I know that one, at least, walks with me,’ Valten said. He lifted Ghal Maraz and saluted Martak. ‘Middenheim stands, Gregor. And so do we.’

  ‘But for how long?’ Martak murmured, as he watched the Herald of Sigmar depart.

  Northern Gatehouse, Grafsmund-Norgarten District

  ‘That, my friends, is nothing less than a bad day wrapped in fur,’ Wendel Volker said, indicating the army that was on the march on the plain below, as he upended the jug and gulped down the tasteless Kislevite alcohol. It was the last of its kind, since Kislev no longer existed, and he intended to enjoy every foul drop in the hours before his inevitable messy demise. He only wished he had a bottle of good Tilean wine to wash it down with.

  He stood atop the gatehouse, having shooed the men who were supposed to be on duty back down into the structure. He stood on the trapdoor, so that he could have a few moments of uninterrupted drinking. The taverns were packed, and every wine cellar and beer hall in the city had been drunk dry three days ago. He’d managed to squirrel away the jug of Kislevite vodka, but it was almost as bad as being sober.

  Volker had come up in the world since his days as a captain in the fortress of Heldenhame. Now he wore the armour and regalia of a member of the Reiksguard, given to him by Kurt Helborg himself as a reward for salvaging what was left of Heldenhame’s garrison and bringing it to Altdorf just in time to bolster the city’s defences. It wasn’t exactly the sort of reward that Volker had hoped for, but one couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially in times like these. And the armour had come in handy more than once, for all that it was dratted heavy and rubbing him raw in all the wrong spots.

  Volker handed the jug off to one of his companions, a big man clad in sea-green armour, decorated with piscine motifs where it hadn’t been battered into shapelessness. ‘A bad day, Wendel, or the bad day?’ the latter said, as he took a swig. Erkhart Dubnitz was the last knight of an order that wasn’t officially recognised by anyone with any sense. The Knights of Manann had fought to the bitter end when the plague-fleets had sailed into Marienburg’s harbour, but Dubnitz alone had escaped the freistadt; he’d been sent to Altdorf, bearing tidings of warning that had, sadly, not been heeded until it was far too late. Now he was a man without a country, fighting to preserve a nation not his own. It was in Altdorf that Volker had made the acquaintance of the Marienburger, and found a kindred spirit, of sorts. At least where it concerned spirits of the alcoholic variety.

  ‘What’s the difference, Erkhart? Either way, we’re the ones it’s happening to,’ the third man standing atop the gatehouse said. He waved aside the jug when it was offered to him. ‘No, thank you. I’d rather die with a clear head, if it’s all the same to you.’ Hector Goetz had the face of a man who’d seen the worst the world had to offer, and hadn’t come away impressed. His armour bore the same hallmarks of hard fighting that Volker’s and Dubnitz’s did, but it was covered in the signs and sigils of the Order of the Blazing Sun. As far as Volker could tell, Goetz was the last templar of the Myrmidian Order left alive. Most, it was said, had died with Talabheim. Goetz had been there, but he refused to talk about it. Volker, a native of Talabecland himself, resisted the urge to press him.

  In truth, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He’d left his parents, his kin, and several enthusiastic and entertaining paramours behind in Talabheim when he’d been given a commission in the Heldenhame garrison. That they were all likely dead had yet to pierce the armour of numbness which was the only thing protecting his sanity at this point. It was either numbness or madness now, and Volker had seen too much to think that there was any sort of relief in madness these days.

  ‘Suit yourself, Hector. More for me and young Wendel,’ Dubnitz said, with a grin. He passed the jug to Volker, who took another swig, and then gave a mournful burp.

  ‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘Dubnitz, be a friend and go get another one.’

  ‘There isn’t another one,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Gentlemen, we are officially out of alcohol. Sound the retreat.’

  Volker cradled the empty jug to his chest. ‘Why bother? There’s nowhere to go.’

  ‘Nonsense. The horizon is right over there.’

  ‘He’s right, Erkhart. There’s nowhere to go. The gods are dead,’ Goetz said softly. His expression became wistful. ‘I thought, for a moment, that they were still with us.’ His face hardened. ‘Then Talabheim happened, and I knew that they were gone.’

  Dubnitz’s grin faded. He sighed. ‘It’s a sad thing, when a man outlives his gods.’

  ‘Aye, and we’re soon to join them,’ Goetz continued. He glanced at Volker. ‘Unless, of course, that Herald of yours has some divine trick up his sleeve.’

  ‘Not that he’s shared with me, no,’ Volker said. When he’d first seen the Herald of Sigmar in the flesh, he’d been duly awed. The man was everything the priests of Sigmar had promised. A demigod, come down amongst mere mortals to fight at their side and lead them to victory against the enemy. That awe had not faded, in the weeks since, so much as it had matured. There was something about Valten that chased away despair and neutered fear. But he was a man like any other, Volker knew. A good man, a just man, but a man all the same. He was about to elaborate, when Goetz suddenly stiffened and cursed.

  ‘Well… here we go,’ Dubnitz breathed softly. ‘Time’s up.’

  Volker saw a flash of polychromatic light below, rising above the horde. The air took on a greasy tang, and he tasted something foul at the back of his throat. He recognised it easily enough, though he wished he didn’t. The clouds began to thicken and twist, and howling gales of wind rippled across the city. Goetz’s face was pale as he backed away from the ramparts. ‘Daemons,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘They’re calling daemons.’ He clutched at his side, as if in memory of an old wound. ‘I can hear them screaming…’

  ‘That’s not all,’ Dubnitz said. He pointed out across the city. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that where the western gatehouse is?’

  Volker turned and saw a column of smoke rising over the city to the west. His mouth felt dry. ‘Oh, gods,’ he rasped. He twisted about as a dull rumble filled the air, and saw a second cloud, this one a sickly greenish hue, rise over the city’s eastern gatehouse. Then, a half-second later, the world gave a sickening lurch as the whole gatehouse shook, nearly knocking him from his feet. He heard screams from below, and thin trickles of green smoke began to creep around the edges of the trapdoor. ‘What the devil–?’

  Dubnitz suddenly reached out and grabbed the back of his cuirass, hauling Volker back, even as a blade hissed through the air where his head had been. ‘That’s the devil,’ Dubnitz said conversationally as a strange apparition, hunched and wrapped in black, landed on the rampart and sprang towards them, a serrated blade clutched in its verminous paws.

  Volker acted instinctively, bringing the jug up and catching his attacker in the skull. The clay jug exploded and the creature fell twitching. ‘Skaven,’ he said dumbly, staring down at it.

  ‘Really, and here I thought it was a halfling with scabies,’ Dubnitz said, drawing his sword as more of the creatures appeared, scrambling over the edge of the ramparts. ‘Where are the blasted guards?’ he growled, as he hacked down a leaping ratman.

  ‘Dead, if that gas is what I think it is,’ Goetz said. He had his own blade in hand, and effortlessly blocked a blow from one of the black-clad skaven. ‘It’s poison. Don’t let it touch you.’ As he spoke, he moved away from the trapdoor, which was fuming steadily.

  ‘That’d explain why the vermin are weari
ng masks,’ Volker grunted as he booted a skaven in the chest and off the rampart. He swung his sword about in a tight arc, driving his opponents back. He heard the muffled squeal of chains and cranks, and knew that the gas had only been a means to an end. ‘They’re lowering the drawbridge. They’re going to let the northmen into the city!’

  ‘Well, sod this for a game of sailors, then,’ Dubnitz said. He rushed towards the inner rampart which overlooked the courtyard of the gatehouse below, and, in a rattle of armour, vaulted over the edge, taking a squealing skaven with him. Volker looked at Goetz, and then, as one, both knights followed their companion over the rampart, leaving the astonished skaven staring after them.

  Volker screamed until he struck the hay cart, and from there it was curses. He rolled off the cart, every limb aching, and hit the cobbles with a crash. The body of the skaven that Dubnitz had caught up flopped to the ground beside him. The big knight grinned down at him, and offered him a hand. ‘On your feet, young Wendel – we’ve got unwelcome visitors on the way, and our swords are needed.’

  Spitting hay, Volker allowed Dubnitz to haul him to his feet. ‘Did you know this hay cart was here the whole time?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Dubnitz said. ‘You learn a lot, being a drunkard. For instance, always make sure you have a soft place to land handy, just in case. Now help me extricate Goetz, before we’re knee-deep in murderous daemon-fondlers.’

  Northern Viaduct

  ‘Horvath, have you ever wondered about the choices that brought you to this point in your life?’ Canto Unsworn rumbled to his closest companion in the press of Chaos warriors, northern tribesmen and howling beastmen moving steadily up the viaduct. There were hundreds of them, moving in a slow but steady lope towards the gatehouse above. An ugly green smoke rose from the ramparts of the wall and the drawbridge had thudded down not a handful of moments before, a sign that their verminous allies had delivered on their promise to knock out the gates.