The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

by Josh Reynolds

  More Warhammer: The End Times stories from blacklibrary.com

  THE RETURN OF NAGASH

  Book One of the End Times

  THE FALL OF ALTDORF

  Book Two of the End Times

  THE CURSE OF KHAINE

  Book Three of the End Times

  THE RISE OF THE HORNED RAT

  Book Four of the End Times

  DEATHBLADE

  A Tale of Malus Darkblade

  The world is dying, but it has been so since the coming of the Chaos Gods.

  For years beyond reckoning, the Ruinous Powers have coveted the mortal realm. They have made many attempts to seize it, their anointed champions leading vast hordes into the lands of men, elves and dwarfs. Each time, they have been defeated.

  Until now.

  The Three-Eyed King has come. With the Empire in flames, Archaon Everchosen has marched south with all the armies of ruin at his heels to claim his birthright and usher in the Age of Chaos. The city of Middenheim, one of the few bastions remaining to men, dwarfs and elves, is his target, for buried deep in the mighty rock upon which it sits is an ancient weapon with which he will bring about his ultimate victory.

  The last hope lies with a few heroes. With the great vortex sundered, the Winds of Magic have been freed, and each has found a mortal host. Only the power of these ‘Incarnates’ can prevent the cataclysm that Archaon seeks to unleash. But they are scattered, and even if they can be gathered, they may not be able to work together.

  The winds of Life, Light, Shadow and Fire have gathered in Athel Loren, in the bodies of high elves and dark elves, now united under the rule of Malekith, the Eternity King. Two, the Celestial and Metal winds, have inhabited men, who will stand alongside their old allies. The wind of Death has found its home in Nagash himself, but none can say how the Undying King will choose to act. And the wind of Beasts is lost, its host unknown.

  As Archaon’s plan comes to fruition, destiny draws the Incarnates together, and the final battle approaches, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance.

  These are the End Times.

  PROLOGUE

  Autumn 2527

  The Drakwald Forest

  The runefang slid from its sheath with a dreadful hiss. The blade shimmered crimson as it bit into the squealing ungor’s neck and removed the beastman’s verminous, almost-human head from its scrawny shoulders. The unlucky creature’s comrades scrambled to avoid a similar fate, but the sword rose and fell in a display of red butchery, spattering the trunks of nearby trees with gore. The blade’s wielder gave a harsh cry and his horse reared, one iron-shod hoof snapping out to catch a fleeing beastman in the back, snapping the wailing creature’s spine.

  Boris Todbringer, Elector Count of Middenheim, Marchlord of the Drakwald, twisted in his saddle, laying about him with the runefang. The sword, called ‘Legbiter’, seemed to hum with joy in his hand as it went about its work. It, like its master, took pleasure in the simple things in life and the shedding of blood was the simplest thing of all for such a weapon. Ungors screamed and died to blade and trampling hoof, and Todbringer roared with pleasure as each new carcass struck the soft loam of the forest floor.

  ‘Come on then, come and die, filth,’ he bellowed. ‘Let Khazrak hear you scream.’ An ungor leapt at him, a spear clutched in its hairy hands. The blade drew sparks as it scraped across his cuirass and he brought his shield edge down on the creature’s skull, splitting it.

  Todbringer smiled fiercely, despite the close call. He felt more alive now than he had for many years. He’d at last shifted the weight of responsibility to stronger shoulders, and was free to do as he wished. And what he wished was to hunt down the foe whose shadow had blighted his life for too long. The creature which had claimed the lives of his sons and taken his eye. The beast which had massacred his people and challenged his authority.

  Khazrak would die. Even if the world was coming to an end, even if the Emperor himself fell, Khazrak would die. The beast must die. That certainty drove Todbringer on, and lent strength to his aching limbs as he hewed and slashed at the enemy like a man half his age – or one possessed. The world had narrowed to that singular point, and nothing else mattered. In some part of his mind, Todbringer wondered if killing the beast might not reverse the course the world had taken in the fraught months since the second fall of Altdorf.

  The Empire was in flames. Even the most sceptical of men could see that the great kingdom which Sigmar had built was now turning to ash on its death-pyre. The plague-ravaged remains of Marienburg crawled with maggots and rot. Nuln was a rat-gnawed ruin, reduced to a blasted crater by the vermin which even now laid siege to Middenheim. Talabheim was a stinking shell, so poisonous and foul that it was avoided even by the armies of the Three-Eyed King. Even Altdorf, which had weathered the plague-storm that had consumed Marienburg, had fallen at last to the chittering hordes of the ratmen. The Emperor had fled south to Averheim, while others had come north, to the City of the White Wolf. His city.

  A crude axe bounced from his shield and he urged his horse forwards into the press, trampling the beasts as they tried to form a ragged phalanx. His runefang, the sign of his authority, of his right of rule, sang a woeful song as he swept it out in a precise arc, lopping off spear heads and malformed limbs alike. ‘Fight me, beasts,’ he roared. ‘Come and die, you spawn of a six-legged goat!’

  Even nature itself was in rebellion. The skies roiled with crackling, magic-laden clouds and the birds and beasts had fled. The Drakwald was empty of all life save the mutated aberrations who now died beneath his sword. It was the End Times. That was what Gregor Martak had claimed, when he’d arrived alongside the so-called Herald of Sigmar, Valten – a former blacksmith, of all things! Martak might have been the Supreme Patriarch of the Colleges of Magic, but deep down he was still a country lad from Middenland, with soil in his ears and gloom in his heart, and Todbringer wouldn’t have put much stock in his mutterings save for the evidence of his own eyes.

  Martak and Valten had come, bringing men and news, and their army of stragglers, refugees and flagellants had breached the zigzag trench lines and burrowed encampments of the ratmen which had ringed Middenheim. Todbringer had welcomed them, though not the news they’d brought. Not at first, at least. They spoke of the fall of the great cities and more besides, of the collapse of the dwarf empire and the slow dissolution of Bretonnia. Tilea, Estalia, all of the great southern states were ashes as well, burned to cinders by the conflagration which even now pressed in on the remnants of the Empire.

  The End Times. The thought was enough to send a shiver of uncertainty through him, even as he chopped down on a shield of wood and animal hide. The ungor brayed in fear as the runefang sought its heart. Todbringer grunted and sent the body slewing into its fellows with a flick of one thick wrist. The End Times. That was why he had heaved his responsibilities onto Valten’s broad shoulders, and named him Castellan of Middenheim. Let the Herald of Sigmar fight the war to end all wars. Todbringer had his own war: a smaller war, but of the utmost importance. If the world was coming to an end, then he had one last matter to attend to. One last debt to settle.

  It was a pure, just thing in a time when the foundations of the earth seemed to be eaten away and the sky gaped wide and hungry. That was what he told himself. One valorous act to stem the tide of brute corruption which sought to envelop everything. Kill the banebeast, and break the warherds. With the beast-tribes broken, the war in the north could be won easily. Without their fodder, the armies of the Three-Eyed King would find themselves bereft of their numerical advantage. That would be
enough to turn the tide. It would be enough. It had to be.

  A pulse of guilt shot through him. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, he knew. A small but insistent part of his mind constantly whispered that he had left his city, his people, in the hands of strangers. Only a Todbringer could weather the storm that had come to engulf Middenheim, it said, and he felt determination fade to doubt, and that doubt became a certainty that he had made a mistake.

  At least until the band of ungors he was now rampaging through had trampled out of the undergrowth, and doubt had at last given way to the rough joy of vindication. After days of searching, days of threading through the tangled trails of the Drakwald, he had been overjoyed to find the enemy at last. When he’d spotted the semi-human beastmen, he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to slake the bloodlust that had steadily built up in him over the weeks of his fruitless hunt. Deaf to the alarmed yells of his entourage, he’d spurred his horse into a gallop and charged right into the midst of the enemy.

  Now ungors surrounded him on all sides, shrieking and snarling, and his horse reared, lashing out with its hooves even as Todbringer smashed his runefang down on hideous faces and primitive shields. He roared and cursed as he fought. From behind him, he heard the howl of the Knights of the White Wolf who made up his bodyguard as they laid about them with their brutal hammers, and the rising curses and war cries of the threescore huntsmen who had accompanied him into the baleful recesses of the Drakwald. The battle swirled about the muddy trail, in the shadows of sour-rooted trees, and twisted bodies fell in heaps. At last, the ungors broke and began to stream away. Some dived back into the undergrowth they had emerged from, while others broke into lurching flight along the trail. Todbringer was tempted to pursue the latter at once, but he jerked on his steed’s reins, turning about to face the slaughter that was occurring behind him. ‘Leave one alive,’ he roared, as he watched his men butcher those creatures too slow or frenzied to flee. ‘Damn your hides, I need one of the beasts breathing, so it can tell me where its one-eyed master is lurking.’ If any of his warriors had heard him, however, they gave no sign.

  He cursed himself, as he finally recognised the ruin he had inadvertently wrought. The orderly column of soldiers he had led into the Drakwald had devolved into a disorganised mass of men, milling about in a wild battle beneath the trees. The Drakwald ate men as surely as did the beasts it sheltered beneath its dark boughs, and staying within sight of one another was the only way of not losing men to the shadows and false trails that blighted it. Even then it was no sure thing. How many men had he lost to the Drakwald over the course of his time as elector count? A thousand? More? How many good men had he fed unwittingly to the hungry dark?

  The forest seemed to press close to either side of the rutted track. The path was a narrow, muddy thing, barely wide enough for three men to march abreast. There was no space to form lines, no room for a proper charge. He was suddenly aware of how stifling the silence was, beneath the crash of arms, and how thick the dark beneath the trees was. It was as if the Drakwald were holding its breath. Unease strangled his eagerness and he kicked his horse into motion. He needed to restore order, and swiftly.

  I hope you’re satisfied, old man, he thought bitterly. You know better! He began to bellow orders as he rode, trying to shout over the din of battle. In his youth, he’d had one of the best parade-ground voices in the Empire, but age had dimmed his volume somewhat. The flush of combat was fading from him, and he felt tired and old. Every joint ached and the runefang felt heavy in his grip, but he didn’t dare sheathe it. Not now.

  The enemy was close. He saw that now, and he cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. How often had his men been led into just such an ambush? How often had they done the leading themselves? He’d allowed his need for vengeance to blind him, and he could feel the jaws of the trap grinding shut about him.

  A long, winding note suddenly rose from the trees. The sound of it speared through his recriminations and struck his gut like a fist. He jerked on the reins and turned his horse about, scanning the forest. More terrible groaning notes slithered between the trees and rose above the canopy, piercing the stillness. Brayhorns, he knew. The hunting horns of the warherds. Then, with a suddenness which defied reality, the forest, so still before, was suddenly alive with the sounds of tramping hooves, rattling weapons and snorting beasts.

  Arrows hissed out from between the trees, punching men from their feet. Todbringer yanked his horse about. He had to reach his men – if they could form a shield-wall, they might manage an organised defence, long enough perhaps to escape the trap he’d led them into. But even as he galloped back towards his warriors, the beastmen burst through the trees on all sides at a run, slamming into the scattered column like a thunderbolt. There were hundreds of them, more than any shield-wall or line of hastily interposed spears could hold back, and men and horses screamed as they died.

  Todbringer howled in rage as he spurred his horse to greater speed. He crashed into the mass of snarling beasts and the force of the impact sent the foe rolling and squealing as his horse trod on those too slow to get out of the way. His runefang quivered in his grasp as he swept it out and chopped down on upraised maws and clutching hands. For a moment he was adrift on a sea of snarling faces, jagged tusks and rusted blades. He cursed and prayed and screamed, matching them howl for howl, as he hewed about himself. Blood hung thick on the damp air, and it dripped into his armour and from his beard. Still they swirled about him, a never-ending tide of bestial fury. He glimpsed his men falling beneath filth-splotched blades one by one, dragged down and reduced to bloody ruin.

  The trees nearby exploded outwards in a spray of splinters as a minotaur charged into battle, its bull-like head lowered and its great hooves trampling man and beast alike. The monster roared and swung an axe in a wide arc, cutting a Knight of the White Wolf and his braying opponent in half in a spray of gore. Todbringer kicked his horse into motion and charged towards the beast even as it turned to meet him. The minotaur lurched towards him through the press of combat, its eyes bulging with blood-greed. It swung its axe and the notched blade caught Todbringer’s stallion in the neck, killing the poor beast instantly. The animal sagged and the count toppled from the saddle.

  He rolled away, avoiding the horse’s death-throes. The minotaur lumbered towards him, froth dripping from its champing jaws. Todbringer forced himself to his feet, even as the monster dropped its axe towards him. The runefang shuddered in his grip as he caught the blow, and the crude axe blade shivered to fragments. The minotaur reeled back, shocked from its fury by the loss of its weapon. Todbringer lunged, and his sword opened the brute’s belly. The minotaur shrieked and clutched at its guts as it grabbed for him awkwardly. Todbringer avoided its clumsy attack and brought his blade down on its forearm. The runefang bit through flesh and bone with ease, and the severed arm flopped into the mud at his feet.

  The minotaur collapsed like a felled tree, its blood steaming as it pumped across the ground. Beastmen pressed in around Todbringer, and he found himself beset on all sides. His breath rasped harshly in his agonised lungs as he moved and fought harder than ever before, seeking to wrestle just a few more seconds of life from the talons of what seemed to be his preordained fate.

  Some part of him had always known that it would end this way, with him surrounded by braying herds, his standard trampled in the mud. Martak had been right; this was the End Times. The time of the Children of Chaos, when the cities of man would burn and be torn apart stone by stone. The world would belong to the mewling, goat-faced freaks which gibbered and snarled around him. He set his feet and heaved back against them, using his shield to batter the closest to the ground, where they were easy prey for his runefang.

  For a moment, he stood alone. His heart ached with sorrow as he heard the sounds of the last of his men being put to the sword by the milling beast-kin. Your fault, old man, he thought. He stared at the snarling
faces that closed in around him. These, then, were the inheritors of the world. He snorted and couldn’t restrain the laugh that forced its way out of his throat. It rang out hard and wild over the track, and silence fell in its wake.

  He swept his arms out as he glared at the beasts that milled about him, inviting them to attack. ‘Come on then, beasts. Dogs of abomination, whelps of darkness – curs by any other name. A Todbringer yet stands. Middenheim stands. Come and feel the White Wolf’s bite!’

  The beastmen lunged forwards. They came at him from every side, remorseless and hungry. Todbringer slashed, hacked and chopped at the horde, and they returned the favour, their barbaric weapons scoring his armour and gashing his exposed flesh. Soon, he could hear the rumble of his heartbeat in his ears and the world seemed squeezed between ribbons of black as he wheezed and staggered. His foot slid in the mud, and he sank down to one knee. The beasts crowded around, and he readied himself for the end.

  Horns blew, loud and low and long. The sound shivered through him, and the beastmen pulled back, whining and griping like hounds denied the kill. Something pushed through their ranks and came into view. ‘I knew it,’ Todbringer murmured.

  Khazrak the One-Eye had come to claim his due. The banebeast of the Drakwald was large, and bulky, heavy with muscle and old scars beneath a suit of piecemeal armour. Yellowing skulls hung from his leather belt, and he carried a barbed whip in one giant paw, and a blade covered in ruinous sigils in the other.

  The trees rustled in a sudden breeze, and it sounded like laughter. Khazrak spread his arms and the beastmen backed away, making room. Todbringer felt his heart speed up. Khazrak hadn’t just come to watch him die. The banebeast had come to kill him.

  Mortal enemies, brought together by fate. The thought brought a mirthless smile to Todbringer’s face. He glanced up. The clouds resembled vast faces in the sky, leering down through the canopy of branches: like gamblers watching a dog savage rats in a pit, he thought. ‘Well,’ he croaked, ‘here we are again, old beast.’