The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 4

  That the Three-Eyed King had seen fit to trust such creatures was still a matter of some disbelief among the gathered warriors who had flocked to his banners. That the skaven had, in fact, followed through on their promises was even more unbelievable, at least as far as Canto Unsworn was concerned, and it made him wonder what further marvels awaited him, should he survive the carnage to come.

  ‘Blood for the Blood God!’ Horvath roared, echoing the cry of the men around him. He glanced at the other and frowned. ‘What are you nattering about now, Unsworn?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Canto said.

  Horvath eyed him suspiciously. The two warriors were a study in contrasts. Both were big, as befitted men who had survived the numberless dangers of the Chaos Wastes, and clad in baroque armour too heavy to be worn by any man not touched by the breath of the Winds of Change and the light of the Howling Sun. Horvath’s armour was the hue of dried blood, and bedecked with grisly sigils of murder and ruin. A trophy rack wobbled on his back, cradling an intact skeleton, every bone of which was carved with a blasphemous litany. Canto’s black armour, while as heavy and imposing as Horvath’s, bore neither sign nor sigil, and he carried no trophies save for the yellowing skulls with strange marks carved into them which hung from his pauldrons and cuirass.

  ‘Why must you always talk, Unsworn? Why must you chatter like a nurgling?’ Horvath growled, shaking his head.

  ‘The gods gave me a voice, Horvath. Blame them,’ Canto said. ‘Crossbows.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Crossbows,’ Canto said and raised his shield as crossbow bolts punched into the front rank of warriors moving up the viaduct. Dozens of men and mutants fell. One, however, remained on his feet. Crossbow bolts jutted from his all-encompassing and faceless armour, but still he staggered on, dragging his sword behind him. As he neared the gatehouse, he seemed to gain strength, and he swung his sword up to clasp it with both hands. With a hoarse cry, he began to run towards the enemy. ‘That one is looking to catch the eyes of the gods,’ Canto muttered as the lone warrior charged towards the smoky ruins of the gatehouse.

  ‘He already has, Unsworn,’ Horvath grunted, plucking a bolt out of his arm. ‘Don’t you recognise him?’ He snapped the bolt in two. ‘That’s Count Mordrek.’

  ‘The Damned One?’ Canto murmured. ‘No wonder he seems in such a hurry.’ Mordrek the Damned was a living warning to all those who vied for the favour of the Dark Gods. He walked at the whim of the gods, never knowing rest, oblivion or damnation. Mordrek, men whispered, had died a thousand times, but was always brought back to fight again. He was the plaything of the gods: beneath his ornate armour, his form was said to change constantly, as if he were the raw stuff of Chaos made flesh.

  ‘He just wandered into camp last night. He wasn’t alone, either. We wage war accompanied by the heroes of old, Unsworn. Aekold Helbrass might be content to play in the ashes of Kislev, but others have come in answer to the Three-Eyed King’s challenge – Vilitch the Curseling, Valnir the Reaper, a dozen others. All rallying to the banner of the Everchosen,’ Horvath continued. He slammed his axe against his shield with every name he rattled off. ‘To march in Mordrek’s wake is an honour, Unsworn. We follow in the footsteps of legend!’

  Horvath’s cry was swallowed up by the roar of the warriors around them. Mordrek’s charge had roused the horde, and Canto found himself carried along as the warriors around him and Horvath began to press forwards up the viaduct once more. As they moved, hatches banged open on cannon embrasures to reveal the hollow muzzles of guns ready to fire. Canto felt his heart quicken with anticipation of the noise and fury to come. He was not afraid; not precisely. He knew what cannons could do. He’d seen the war-engines of the dawi zharr first-hand, and knew that these guns were but a pale shadow of those terrible devices. Men would die, but not him. Not if his luck held, as it had so far.

  Canto had fought his way south with the rest of Halfgir’s Headsmen, as they called themselves, when the thrice-damned sorcerous bastion the southerners had erected had come down at last. He’d fought living men and dead ones, and rival champions seeking the favour of the gods as well. The sky was the colour of blood and the moons were crumbling, and sometimes, when he looked up quickly enough, he could see vast faces, leering down at the world from whatever lofty perch the gods regularly crouched on.

  The thought gave him no pleasure. They were just watching now, but if it truly was the end of days, if the Last Hour was finally upon them, then the gods might start taking a more direct hand in the affairs of mortals, and Canto didn’t want to be around when that happened. The gods were unpredictable and malignant, and no man could survive their attentions.

  Middenheim’s walls came alive with blossoms of fire. Bolts, bullets, cannonballs and mortar shells fell among the throng. Canto saw a bouncing cannonball carom off Count Mordrek, knocking the Damned One from his feet. A moment later Mordrek was shoving himself upright, the buckled plates of his armour reshaping themselves even as he staggered back into motion. ‘He is truly blessed,’ Horvath said.

  ‘Don’t let him hear you say that,’ Canto grunted. All around them, blood and torn flesh sprayed into the air as cannonballs and mortar shells struck the massed ranks of men moving up the viaduct. Canto grimaced as blood spattered across his armour. He’d counselled the others against this, but they hadn’t wanted to hear it. No, they wanted the glory, the honour of first blood. And he’d had no choice but to go along with it; to do otherwise was to risk death. They would have cut him down where he stood, and then gone anyway. Story of your misbegotten life, Canto, he thought.

  Despite the barrage from the walls Mordrek reached the gatehouse intact, Canto and the others dogging his heels. The Damned One struck the defenders like a wolf attacking sheep. His sword arced out, lopping off limbs and opening bellies. Even as the wounded men fell, their bodies began to writhe and change. New, monstrous limbs erupted from them as the newly awakened things within them shed their human flesh. Monsters sprang up in Mordrek’s path, and launched themselves at their former comrades.

  Monsters within, monsters without, Canto thought, as he broke into a run. He beheaded a whey-faced halberdier, and then he was inside the walls of the City of the White Wolf, an army of the lost and the damned at his heels.

  TWO

  The Depths of the Fauschlag

  Beyond the flickering light of the torches, beady red eyes gleamed. Gregor Martak peered into the dark and frowned. He reached out with his mind, grasping the strands of Ghur which inundated the tunnels. The Amber Wind flowed wild throughout Middenheim, rising from the god-touched stones. The Fauschlag seemed to reverberate with the howling of wolves that only Martak could hear, and he felt a wild, terrible power settle into the marrow of his bones.

  ‘Well, wizard?’ Axel Greiss grunted, hefting his hammer. Greiss had come to observe the defence of the tunnels, and had brought reports of enemy contact at the other junctions. A cadre of armoured knights surrounded him, each one a glowering, bearded beacon of Ulric’s favour. The presence of the knights and the Grand Master had done much to stiffen the resolve of the common soldiers. Rumours about what had happened in the Temple of Ulric had spread like quicksilver through the city, and Middenheim was in turmoil as priests and templars of Ulric sought to calm the panicked citizenry and soldiery both.

  ‘Hush,’ Martak said absently. ‘I need to concentrate.’ Greiss flushed and growled something, but Martak ignored him. He set his staff and pulled that savage influence into himself, drawing it up, and with a whisper he set it flooding into the packed ranks of troops standing before him, granting courage and strength where there was a deficit of either. As the power flowed out of him, he thought he saw something low and white slink through the legs of the soldiers before him. He felt a wash of hot breath on his neck, and something growled softly in his ear. He shuddered, and the feeling fled.

  The skaven poured out of the darkness, a chitterin
g, squealing mass of mangy fur, rusted armour and jagged blades. Men recoiled in instinctive horror, but the whip-crack of a sergeant’s voice, loud in the confines of the tunnel, was enough to steady most of them. A second order saw crossbows clatter. A volley of bolts tore through the rapidly diminishing space between the defenders and the encroaching enemy. At such close range, in the narrow tunnel, it was impossible to miss. ‘Ha! That’s the way,’ Greiss bellowed.

  Martak watched as the front rank of skaven were punched from their feet. Their bodies, some still twitching, vanished beneath the talons of the next rank as the horde pressed forwards. A hurried second volley proved no more an obstacle than the first, and the skaven ground on, over their own dead and dying, until Martak could hear nothing save their squealing. An order rippled up and down the Empire line and shields were hastily locked, even as the enemy reached them.

  ‘Now you’ll see, wizard,’ Greiss said. ‘This is how a true son of Middenheim fights. With iron and muscle, not sorcery.’

  His words stung. Martak looked away. Born in Middenheim he might have been, but he was as much a stranger here as Valten. More so, in fact. Valten wasn’t a sorcerer. In the City of the White Wolf, there was no such thing as a good wizard. There was only Chaos, and anyone who practised magic was destined for a fiery end, tied to a witch’s stake in a market square, unless the Colleges of Magic got to them first. Even now, they looked at him with suspicion. Even now, they thought he was as bad as the enemy battering at their gates.

  If I had my way, I’d tell you to go hang, and take this cesspool with you, Martak thought, watching the battle unfold. He’d always hated cities, and as far as he was concerned, there was no difference between Middenheim and Altdorf. Let them fall. The world would be the better for it. He leaned against his staff, letting it support him for a moment. But who are you to decide that, eh? he thought, not without some bitterness. The gods decided your lot long ago, Gregor Martak. They might be dead and gone to dust, but the course they set for you still holds true. And you’ll follow it to the bitter end, because there’s no other way out of this trap.

  Screaming ratmen crashed into the shield-wall, and paid a deadly toll. Snouts were smashed to red ruin, and furry bodies were impaled or hacked down by thrusting spears and jabbing halberds. Martak saw a frothing skaven scramble up the surface of a soldier’s shield and fling itself onto the man behind him in an effort to escape the deadly press.

  Everywhere Martak looked, men and skaven strove against one another. The press of battle swayed back and forth, but the ratmen could not break the shield-wall. Soon, they began to falter. Martak gestured and strengthened flagging sword arms. Unbloodied state troops moved in to bolster the line, and Martak stepped back, pulling his cloak tight about himself, grateful he’d had no cause to enter the fray directly. Ever since the winds of magic had begun to blow so strongly, he could feel the boiling rage that accompanied the Wind of Beasts – a need to tear and bite, to eat and eat and eat. He closed his eyes and shivered. When he opened them, he could see Greiss looking at him sidelong, though whether in concern or disgust, he couldn’t say.

  Pushing the thought aside, he turned his attentions to the battle. As glad as he was that the skaven were being held at bay, he wondered at the absence of the strange weapons which they had used to such devastating effect during the battle for Altdorf. Where were the gas weapons, the warpstone-fuelled lightning guns? Where were the rat ogres, or even the armoured, black-furred elite of the chittering horde?

  ‘Chaff,’ he muttered. ‘They’re throwing chaff at us. Why?’ He stepped back as more troops flooded into the tunnel. Over-enthusiastic commanders were throwing their men into battle with the skaven, stripping them from the garrisons above, trusting in the walls of Middenheim to hold the enemy without while they destroyed the enemy within. And that hadn’t been an unreasonable assumption, while the Flame of Ulric had burned. But the fire that stirred the blood of the men of Middenheim and kept daemons out of its streets had been snuffed. ‘It’s a trick,’ he grunted.

  ‘What?’ Greiss asked.

  ‘These are the dregs,’ Martak said, gesturing. ‘They have better troops than this. So where are they? Now is the perfect time to strike, but they are not here.’ He looked at Greiss. ‘Was it the same in the other tunnels?’

  ‘What’s the difference? One rat is much like another,’ Greiss said.

  ‘It’s a trick,’ Martak said. ‘They’re bleeding us, drawing our eyes away from something else, some other point of attack.’ He hesitated. ‘We need to fall back. We’ll strip men from the reserves in the tunnels above, and bolster the defences along the walls. They’re up to something, and we can’t let ourselves get trapped down here.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Greiss said dismissively. ‘This is no trick. You said it yourself, man… They’re attacking from below, as Archaon attacks from without.’ He looked at Martak. ‘You were right, wizard,’ he said, grudgingly.

  ‘Then how do you explain it?’ Martak demanded, knowing that whatever he’d thought earlier, and whatever Greiss now believed, there was more going on than he could see. He could feel it in his bones.

  ‘I don’t have to,’ Greiss snarled. He hefted his hammer warningly. ‘They attack. So we must defend. Middenheim stands, and while it does, we fight.’

  ‘But what if you’re defending the wrong spot?’

  ‘What other spot would you have me defend, wizard? Here is where the enemy is, and– Eh?’ The tunnel shuddered violently, interrupting Greiss’s outburst. Dust drifted down. Martak looked up. The northern gatehouse was somewhere above them. He blinked dust out of his eyes. Cracks ran along the roof of the tunnel, and his eyes widened.

  ‘By the horns of Taal,’ he muttered, as he realised too late what had occurred. He looked back towards the skaven hurling themselves on the swords and spears of the state troops, distracting them, occupying them. He looked back at Greiss. The old knight looked confused. ‘Don’t you understand? I was wrong! This is a feint! The enemy is in the city,’ Martak snarled. ‘If you would save your city, Greiss, then you’d best shut up and follow me.’

  Northern Gatehouse

  Smoke filled the courtyard. Not the greenish cloud from earlier, but black, greasy smoke which vented from the gatehouse and its attached structures. Someone had set fire to something somewhere. The skaven had vanished as quickly as they had appeared. Small favours, Wendel Volker thought, as he followed Dubnitz and Goetz across the courtyard. He could still feel the echoes of the drawbridge thudding down in his bones. The sound of it had reminded him of a death-knell, but whether it was for him, the city or the world, he didn’t know and feared to guess.

  O Sigmar, please take some other poor fool today if you must, but not me, Volker thought as he coughed and staggered towards the raised portcullis that marked the way to the drawbridge. The gatehouse was, in many ways, a small fortress in its own right, and it was far bigger than it first looked. It would take the enemy several minutes to traverse it. He could hear the thudding of feet on the drawbridge, and the creak of the outer portcullis as the enemy sought to rip it from its housings. Stone buckled and burst with a shriek, and men roared in triumph and fear. ‘At least we’re not alone,’ he rasped, drawing his sword.

  Those soldiers who had survived the skaven attack on the gatehouse had apparently mustered in the inner causeway between the portcullises, and he could hear some unlucky sergeant screaming for them to hold fast, even as the enemy butchered them. He heard shrieks and cries, and the roars of monsters. Handgunners and crossbowmen on the walls above fired down into the melee. Volker took some comfort in the belch of gunfire, though there was precious little of it to his ears. Where were the reinforcements? Why wasn’t anyone coming?

  ‘Probably heading for the eastern gate,’ Goetz said. Volker blinked. He hadn’t realised that he’d spoken aloud. ‘That stuck-up wolf’s hindquarters Greiss stripped half the garrison to reinforce t
he tunnels.’

  ‘Now is that any way to talk about the Grand Master of our honoured brethren in the Order of the White Wolf?’ Dubnitz asked. ‘What would he think, if he were here to hear you?’

  ‘I wish he was here,’ Goetz shot back. ‘It’d be one more body between us and whatever is bloody well coming across that gods-bedamned drawbridge.’ He plucked a shield from the lifeless grip of one of the bodies littering the courtyard and ran the flat of his sword across its rim with a steely screech.

  ‘I’ll tell you who I wish were here – a priestess I knew by the name of Goodweather. That woman and her magic shark’s teeth would come in handy right about now,’ Dubnitz said. His smile faltered for a moment, and his eyes tightened, as if he were seeing something he’d rather not. Then he shook himself. ‘Ah, Esme,’ he said softly. He shook his head. ‘No use wishing, at any rate. We’re what’s here, and we’ll have to make do.’

  ‘Or we could leave,’ Volker muttered. ‘Make a strategic redeployment somewhere else – preferably Averheim.’ Despite his words, he didn’t mean it. Not really. He wasn’t a coward, though he felt like one at times. He simply wanted the world to slow down, for just a moment, so he could catch his breath.

  Unfortunately, the world didn’t seem to care what he wanted. Men began fleeing through the courtyard, past Volker and the others. They were bloodied, and looked as if all the daemons of the north were on their heels. Which, Volker supposed, they were. Clawed, incandescent flippers abruptly emerged from the gateway and gripped either side as something squamous and bloated squeezed itself out and gave a deafening screech. A multitude of colourful tendrils moved across its oily skin as it flopped after a fleeing swordsman and scooped him up with an eager grunt.