by Warhammer
‘What is it?’ asked Max.
‘Felix and the others are still out there.’
‘It’s too late to worry about that now,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing you can do for them.’
‘I know. It’s just I wish we hadn’t been separated.’
Despite his rivalry with Felix, Max felt the same way, and not just because of his comradeship with the man and the Slayer. He felt certain somehow, that if anyone were going to survive this mess, it would be those two. It might have been useful to be with them when they did.
The duke was already striding through the postern gate that led to the stairs into the watchtower. Going to watch his city burn, thought Max. I suppose we’d better join him.
It was quiet inside the temple and cool. Felix looked around at the icons showing the goddess and her saints on the wall, and the huge symbol of the dove carved on the altar. The place was packed with the scared and the wounded. Bloody, bandaged men lay on the floor. Weeping women and screaming children were everywhere. Obviously these unfortunates had not managed to make it to the safety of the inner city either.
Felix wondered if there was anything at all he could do for these people. He doubted it. They were probably doomed. It would only be a matter of time before the Chaos warriors got here, or the fire spread to the temple. He doubted this wooden structure would last very long in either eventuality.
Felix watched Snorri and the other Slayers carry Gotrek through the crowd towards the altar. He followed them wearily, glancing at the icons all the time. He had come to the temple of Shallya in Altdorf many times when still a very young child. His mother had been dying of the wasting sickness, and they had come to beg the goddess’s intercession on her behalf. In spite of all his father’s offerings, the goddess, for reasons of her own no doubt, had refused to intervene. Felix had been left with ambivalent feelings towards the temple after that. He had liked the kind, quietly spoken priestesses, but he could not understand why Shallya had not answered his prayers. After all, she was a goddess; almost anything was supposed to be in her power. He forced those thoughts to one side. Now was not the time to be wool-gathering.
A priestess rose to greet the Slayers. She looked tired, pale and drained of energy in the same way as Gotrek had looked after the destruction of the daemon towers. It looked like the priestesses of the merciful one contributed some of their own strength to work their healing. It seemed logical, given what Max had told him about the nature of sorcery. He only hoped the woman still had enough power left within her to help Gotrek.
‘Lay him down near the altar,’ she said. Without comment Snorri obeyed then stood to one side, holding his huge paw respectfully over his heart. The priestess passed her hand over Gotrek’s forehead.
‘This one’s spirit is strong,’ she said. ‘He might live.’
‘We need him on his feet now,’ Felix said. ‘Can’t you do something?’
The woman looked up at Felix. He was sorry he had spoken so sharply to her. Huge fatigue circles darkened the skin under her eyes. She looked ready to drop from weariness. When she saw the axe in his hand, she gasped. ‘Is that his axe?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It is a weapon of great power. I can feel its strength from here.’ She turned to look at the recumbent form of the Slayer once more. ‘I will see what I can do.’
She knelt beside Gotrek and placed her hand on his forehead. Closing her eyes, she began to sway from side to side, invoking the name of the goddess. A halo of light shimmered around her head and her hand. The flesh of Gotrek’s scalp began to knit together, and after a long moment, his one good eye flickered and opened.
‘You called me back,’ he said. He sounded groggy and amazed. ‘I stood at the gates of the Ancestral Hall and they would not let me in. I had not redeemed myself in battle, they said. My spirit was doomed to wander homeless in the eternal fog.’
‘Hush now,’ the priestess said, stroking his forehead as she might a child’s. ‘You were hit on the head. Often that brings strange dreams and visions.’
‘This did not feel like a dream.’
‘Sometimes they do not.’
‘Nonetheless, I owe you a debt of honour, priestess. And it is one I will repay.’
‘Don’t forget you owe Snorri a beer as well then,’ said Snorri.
Gotrek glared at him. ‘Why?’
‘I carried you here.’
Gotrek gave him a crooked smile. ‘Then I will buy you a tankard or two, Snorri Nosebiter.’
‘It’s true what they say then,’ Snorri said happily. ‘There is a first time for everything.’
Arek cursed as he rode through the devastated streets of Praag. All was madness now. The horde had broken apart in a frenzy of looting and destruction. They drank and brawled and offered up the souls of those defenders they found to their patron daemons. It would take days to reinforce discipline now, and they might not have days. They needed to take and hold the city before the depths of winter settled in. They needed shelter, not a city that had been reduced to rubble.
He had started to feel that his god was mocking him. He had possessed no idea of the scale of the challenge of holding his force together. A few more victories like this would be as good as a defeat. He looked at the drunken warriors, the blazing buildings, and the sheer brute stupidity of it all, and fought down an urge to kill. The fires blazed furnace-like, out of control. He could feel the backwash of heat from here.
‘Order the warriors to cease torching the buildings,’ said Arek suspecting it was already too late, that the fire was beyond any attempt to control it.
‘It wasn’t our warriors,’ said Bayar Hornhelm. ‘It’s the Kislevites. They did this. They set fire to their homes as they retreated into the citadel. A stubborn lot.’
Arek nodded. He should have expected it. The Kislevites were not fools. They understood the situation as well as he did. They knew that without food and shelter the winter would avenge them on their conquerors. Arek knew that he and his Chaos warriors would survive, most of the magicians too, but the beastmen and the humans would be reduced to cannibalism to see them through the cold season. The great horde would evaporate. He did not doubt that soon the various factions would fall out and start preying on one another. Either that or flee and hope to find the army of another great warlord.
Although he hated to admit it, the wizards had been right about the risks of attacking so late in the season. He had gambled and lost. Still, at the very least, he consoled himself with the thought that he would ensure that none of the Kislevites survived to enjoy their pitiful triumph. A courier rode up:
‘A message, Lord Arek.’ The warlord gestured for him to speak.
‘A Kislevite army approaches from the west. The skaven host has emerged north of us. Morgar Doomblade has taken his troops to engage them.’
Arek cursed the Khornate warleader. Always seeking glory. Always seeking more victories and more blood and more souls to offer to his hungry howling god. It was not enough to finish mopping up the defenders of Praag first. He had to seek other battles. Arek forced himself to keep calm. Under the circumstances it might not be a bad thing. After all it would not do to have the ratmen attacking his army in the rear. The question of what to do about the approaching Kislevites vexed him. They must have ridden like daemons to get here so quickly. He doubted that his own warriors, intoxicated as they currently were with butchery, were in any condition to stop them.
Swiftly he thought through his options. He needed this blaze extinguished and the city preserved. Only magic could do that now. This was a job for Kelmain and Lhoigor, damn their unruly souls. If anyone could succeed it was them. The reserves waiting outside the walls could hold the Kislevites until he could organise the overwhelming mass of his men to throw at them. At least the cold waters of the river would hold the Kislevites for a while. It would take time to get any army across the bridges and fords.
He gave the courier orders quickly, then rode out into the mob, bellowing o
rders in his most commanding voice.
‘Grey Seer Thanquol! Awaken!’ bellowed a familiar deep voice in his ear. Thanquol pulled himself from his trance, and resisted the urge to blast Izak Grottle with his most devastating spell.
‘Yes! Yes! What is it?’ he asked.
‘We are attacked,’ Grottle said. ‘Chaos Warriors, daemons and beastmen approach from the south. Why did you not warn us?’
Because I had more interesting things to look at, Thanquol almost replied, but didn’t. The import of Grottle’s words started to sink in. A force of Chaos warriors was about to attack them! The situation was serious! Thanquol must immediately take steps to preserve his precious life.
‘How many? How close? Quick! Quick!’ he chittered.
‘Thousands. Almost upon us,’ Grottle stammered.
‘Why did you not rouse me sooner?’
‘We tried but you were deep in your sorcery. We thought you must have been communing with the Horned Rat himself.’
‘We all might be very soon, if we do not get ready to defend ourselves.’ Hastily Thanquol barked out orders and instructions. Filled with apprehension his warriors rushed to obey.
Gotrek raised his axe and inspected it carefully. The edge glittered, as sharp as ever. The runes blazed brightly. The Slayer seemed to draw strength from the weapon. He was still pale as a ghost but he looked capable of fighting. A mad rage glittered in his one good eye. Outside in the distance, the sounds of battle could be heard.
‘Let’s get going,’ he said. ‘We’ve killing to do.’
THIRTEEN
‘It’s not that I in any way doubt your majesty’s word, but do you think it will hold?’ Ivan Petrovich Straghov asked carefully. The Ice Queen was usually a very cold and calm woman, but when she lost her temper it was as bad as a northlands blizzard.
‘It will hold, old friend,’ she replied, surveying her work with satisfaction. ‘I guarantee it.’
The belief in her voice compelled him to believe it too, although, had he not witnessed this with his own eyes, he would have found the whole thing incredible. The Ice Queen’s sorcery was potent indeed. Ivan had watched as she stood by the sluggish grey waters of the river, and incanted her spell. Spreading her arms wide she had called upon the east and west winds. Snow had fallen on the river; the air had become incredibly chill. As he watched, in heartbeats, a fine layer of frost had formed on the surface of the river, moving outward with incredible speed from the spot where the Ice Queen stood. Within a minute, massive blocks of ice had formed. Within ten minutes, the whole river had frozen solid. Now the snow lay atop it, were it not for the trench formed by its banks, Ivan would not have been able to tell the river was there at all.
‘Go,’ the tzarina said. ‘It will hold our weight.’
Suiting action to words, she spurred her horse to a gallop and it raced out over the frozen waters. With a mighty shout, the Gospodar muster followed her.
‘Look up there!’ said Ulrika pointing at the sky. Max looked up expecting to see harpies descending on them. He did indeed see some of the hideous beasts but they were fluttering upwards to attack something massive descending through the clouds.
‘It’s the Spirit of Grungni,’ Ulrika said, her voice filled with wonder.
Sigmar be praised, thought Max somewhat ashamedly. At least we will have a way out of here. As he watched, brilliant flashes blazed from the airship’s sides. The harpies plummeted earthwards as the Spirit of Grungni’s potent weaponry scythed through them.
Kelmain looked at his twin and saw his own weariness echoed in that familiar face. No living thing could withstand the stresses they had endured this day and remain untouched. They had wielded the sort of power normally reserved for greater daemons, and it had stretched them to the limit, and left them weary almost beyond enduring. Magical feedback from the destruction of the towers had almost driven them both insane. Many of their apprentices had not been so fortunate. They writhed gibbering in the snowdrifts nearby. So far neither he nor his twin had been able to spare the energy to kill them.
‘You feel it too, brother,’ Lhoigor said.
Kelmain could only nod. To the west, they sensed a mystical disturbance of great power, human magic of a powerful sort, drawing on the chill power of the Kislevite winter. To the north was another disturbance, different, touched by Chaos, also of great power. At a guess, Kelmain would have said they were skaven, and he was sure his twin would have agreed with him. Powerful as the disturbances were, under normal circumstances the twins would not have feared their cause. Few indeed were the mages in the world they feared. But these were not normal circumstances. Neither of them would be able to wield their full power for days to come. The apocalyptic energies they had unleashed today had drained most of their strength.
A rider thundered closer. Kelmain looked at the Chaos warrior closely, noting the silvered helm that marked one of Lord Arek’s personal couriers. The horseman rode right up to them and reared his mount, bringing it to a stop. ‘The Lord Arek commands you to quench the blaze in the city,’ he shouted arrogantly.
Kelmain looked at his brother. Lhoigor looked back at him. Simultaneously they began to laugh. ‘Tell Lord Arek that regretfully we must decline his polite request,’ Kelmain said.
‘What?’ spluttered the Chaos warrior.
‘Sadly it is impossible at this exact moment,’ explained Lhoigor.
‘Impossible? Lord Arek will order you skinned alive.’
‘It is a very bad idea to threaten us,’ Lhoigor said.
‘Very bad indeed,’ Kelmain added. He summoned enough energy to reduce the courier’s armour to molten slag. Droplets of metal sizzled in the snow.
‘That was unwise, brother,’ said Lhoigor, smiling approvingly.
‘True, but he deserved it.’
‘What shall we do now?’
‘Watch and wait. I suspect that Lord Arek is about to discover that his fortunes have turned.’
‘We did warn him that the stars were not right. But would he listen?’
‘How long do you think the daemons can remain on this plane? They were your responsibility.’
‘Another hour, at most. Quite possibly much less.’
‘Well, there are other warlords in the south now, and the paths of the Old Ones will soon be open.’
‘Then by all means let us see what happens.’
Felix chopped down another beastman. He had lost count of the number they had killed since they emerged into the maze of side streets around the temple. He looked around. The dwarfs seemed to be enjoying themselves. They grinned like maniacs as they killed. He supposed it was only to be expected really. They were close to finding their long-awaited dooms.
He blocked the blow of a massive fur-clad barbarian. A necklace of still bloody ears hung round the man’s neck. Felix could see that many of them were small enough to belong to children. The man bellowed something in his incomprehensible tongue and aimed another clumsy slash at Felix with his black iron blade. Felix ducked, and, with a cold cruelty he had not known he possessed, stabbed him carefully in the stomach and then turned his blade in the wound before withdrawing it. He kicked the screaming man in the mouth for good measure as he fell.
‘Look up there!’ he heard Ulli shout. Felix risked a glance upwards, and despite his despair felt his heart soar. Above them flew the well-remembered shape of the Spirit of Grungni. It appeared that Malakai Makaisson had returned. Felix could only hope he had brought reinforcements with him.
Although he doubted that the airship could possibly hold enough men to make a difference in this conflict.
The burning building crashed down around Arek. A wall of flames licked out, driving him and his knights down another side street. Arek looked up at the sky and shook his fist. Another black bomb descended, tossed down from that flying ship. The explosion blew Arek from his mount. Where were the harpies? Why were his mages not blasting that accursed airship from the sky with lightning? He looked around and saw that the expl
osion had killed several of his bodyguards. The rest were riding off. Obviously they had missed him in the chaos of smoke and flames and explosions.
Not that it mattered. He could hear beastmen shouting war cries nearby. He would find them, rally them to his side, and return to the fray. When he saw them again he would have more than harsh words for his pet sorcerers.
Thanquol watched wave after wave of Chaos knights surge towards his force. Enormous warriors bellowing the name of the Blood God surged through the snow and threatened to overwhelm even the stormvermin. Twice now Thanquol had been forced to call on his sorcerous powers to throw them back, and twice it had been touch and go. He had used the dark magical energy around him to inspire his troops to feats of ferocity unprecedented by any skaven army before, and it still had proved barely enough. Thanquol would have used his escape spell to cast himself clear of the fray long ago, had he not been so certain that without him the Moulder army would collapse and he would swiftly be ridden down by the Khornate riders. It might come to that yet, he thought, chewing on a piece of purified warpstone and letting the unleashed power surge through his veins.
‘They come! They come again!’ Izak Grottle bellowed in his ear.
Thanquol made a mental note that if the worst came to the worst, he would blast the obese Moulder into his component atoms before attempting his escape.
Ivan Petrovich Straghov rode through the Chaos lines chopping at anything that got in the way with his sabre. Above him the blood red sky glowered down. The burning city of Praag fitfully illuminated the whole hellish scene of battle. Ahead of him, beastmen bellowed challenges and ran for their trenches. It was a mark of how overconfident they had been that all their earthworks faced the city. Well, thought Ivan, they were paying for it now.
Ahead of him someone had set fire to a massive trebuchet. The huge siege engine blazed like a gigantic torch. Beside him the Ice Queen and her bodyguard fought like warriors born. The tzarina’s blade blazed in her hand. Ancient runes glittered along the length of the blade. Suddenly, the last beastman in the area was dead. In the lull, the Ice Queen spoke.