‘I do not wish to ask this of you,’ Gelt began, as he looked at Hammerson. He reached out, without thinking, and placed his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. Hammerson twitched, as if to knock the hand aside, but in the end, he merely shook his head.
‘Then don’t. No time for long goodbyes, lad,’ Hammerson rumbled, placing his heavy hand over Gelt’s. ‘We made an oath, and we’ll not break it now.’
Gelt hesitated, trying to summon the words. Hammerson nudged him impatiently, poking him in the belly with the flat of his hammer. ‘Go on, lad. Get moving, the both of you. There’s work to be done, and it’s best done well. Don’t let the elgi and that tottering tower of bones mess it up.’ The runesmith grinned. ‘We’ll see to things here, one way or another.’
Gelt nodded and turned away. He caught hold of Quicksilver’s bridle and hauled himself into the pegasus’s saddle. The animal whinnied and reared, as Gelt extended his hand to Alarielle. She climbed into the saddle behind him, without hesitation. ‘We must ride swiftly, wizard,’ she murmured as she wrapped an arm around his midsection. ‘They will pursue us.’
‘Let them try. Quicksilver has outpaced daemons before. Aye, and worse things besides,’ Gelt said confidently. At a tap of his heels, the pegasus began to gallop towards the northern gatehouse. He did not look back as he felt the twinge of Hammerson’s magics on the wind, and heard the crack of gunfire. Alarielle pressed her face to his back as her people moved around them, elves and dryads fighting and dying to clear them a path.
Daemons bounded forwards to block their route, but Gelt thrust his staff out, over Quicksilver’s head, and swept the creatures aside with a gout of shimmering energy. Then they were past the northern gatehouse and galloping through the streets beyond, in the direction of the Ulricsmund and the Temple of Ulric.
As they rode, Gelt whispered a silent prayer to whatever gods might still be listening that the other Incarnates would be there to meet them.
Hammerson watched Gelt ride away, and smiled sadly. ‘A good lad, that one, for all that he’s had a rough path to walk.’
‘Aye,’ Grombrindal rumbled. Hammerson could not say where the white-bearded dwarf had come from, or when he had arrived, but he was here now, and that was all that mattered. If this was to be the last war of the dwarfs, it was only fitting that the White Dwarf himself be there to fight alongside them. Grombrindal hefted his axe, and ran his thumb along the edge. ‘But he and the elgi woman are best out of it, eh? This is dwarf work.’
‘Aye, that it is,’ Hammerson said. He no longer felt tired. Though Gelt’s enchantments were fading, his warriors looked as fresh as the day they’d set out for Averheim, so long ago. It was as if the presence of the revered ancestor had renewed their strength.
He looked past the shield-wall and saw that the Chaos hordes, daemons and mortals alike, were readying themselves to charge once more. If they were allowed to get past the Zhufbarak, the Incarnates would pay the price. Hammerson raised his axe. ‘Plant the standards, lads,’ he bellowed. ‘I want to fight in the shade.’
With a loud rattle, the clan standards were stabbed into the ground, creating a makeshift forest of gold and steel. Hammerson looked up at them, and knew that he was seeing them for the last time. ‘I forged some of those myself,’ he said.
‘Good runework,’ Grombrindal said.
‘Not worth doing, otherwise,’ Hammerson said.
Flesh hounds howled, and bloodthirsters roared. Bloodletters shrieked and mortal warriors added their chants and screams to the daemonic clamour. The dwarfs ignored the noise. Hammerson nodded in satisfaction. ‘I wish Ungrim were here. He’d love this.’
‘He is here, lad,’ Grombrindal rumbled. ‘They’re all here, standing with us, in this moment. All the kings and their clans, be they thane, clansman or Slayer, they are with us now. Can’t you feel them? They are crying out for vengeance. Today is a day for the settling of all grudges, great or small.’
As the White Dwarf spoke, Hammerson thought he could see them. The ghosts of his ancestors moved through the ranks of the living to fill the gaps in the shield-wall. And not just the dead of storied centuries, but those more recent. He saw Thorek Ironbrow, and Ungrim Ironfist. He saw Thorgrim, the Grudgebearer himself, and others besides. Faces and names from history and recent days. It was as if the entirety of their people had come to witness this final act of defiance.
He saw Grombrindal standing upon a broad shield, supported on the shoulders of a one-eyed Slayer and a tankard-carrying ranger. The good eye of the Slayer met his own, and Hammerson felt his growing sadness washed away in a moment of anger. Anger that it had come to this, that all the great works of his people were now as nothing. The fate of the world would be decided elsewhere, by the hands of humans and elves.
For the dwarfs, there was only this. The whole of their history, brought to this point. Hammerson met Grombrindal’s gaze, and the White Dwarf nodded slowly. If it must be done, let it be done well, Hammerson thought. Whether they were dead or alive, that was the only way dwarfs knew how to do anything.
On the other side of the shield-wall, the Chaos horde had jolted into motion at last. Hammerson lifted his weapons. ‘We make our stand here,’ he said, trusting in his voice to carry to every ear. ‘No more running. We stand here, for the Black Water, for every hold, and the world entire. Do you hear me, sons of Zhufbar? Like the stones of the mountains… we will hold.’
EIGHTEEN
The Ulricsmund, Middenheim
Caradryan spun his Phoenix Blade, blocking the deadly bite of the axe as it flashed towards him. The Chaos champion known as Arbaal the Undefeated roared in fury and hacked at the Incarnate of Fire again. Nearby, Ashtari shrieked in fury as he tore at the scaly body of Arbaal’s flesh hound. The daemon-dog wailed in frustrated rage as the firebird drove its beak into the beast’s flesh again and again.
‘I have slaughtered armies of elves,’ Arbaal roared. His axe reeked of hot blood, and it left trails of crimson smoke in its wake as he brought it slashing down towards Caradryan’s head. ‘I have broken the backs of dragons, and eaten the hearts of sea-leviathans.’
‘Your culinary practices are no concern of mine,’ Caradryan snarled, parrying the blow. His arms ached, but he whirled the halberd about as if it were as light as a feather. He twisted and spun, driving the Chaos champion back. ‘It does not matter to me how many you have murdered, monster. It ends here.’
Quicker than thought, Caradryan lunged, slashed and jabbed, striking Arbaal again and again. He knew that were he not host to Aqshy, he would have no hope of standing up to such a foe, let alone defeating him. But with the fire raging in him, he felt as if there were no battle he could not survive. It was a dangerous feeling. He had spent centuries honing his mind and body, and learning to control the rage that was the curse of every elf. But the fire called to that primal part of him, and lent it strength. He wondered if this was akin to what Tyrion had felt, when the fury of Khaine had driven him into madness and despair. There was a freedom in it that called to him, and that he longed to embrace. Instead, he whispered the mantras of Asuryan, trying to maintain focus.
Arbaal swatted the Phoenix Blade aside, ripping it out of Caradryan’s hands. The elf cursed himself for his momentary lack of focus and threw himself over Arbaal’s next blow, his hands reaching for the halberd’s haft. He caught the weapon and rolled to his feet, turning just in time to block a blow that would have split him in half. Shattered cobbles shifted beneath his feet as Arbaal put all of his weight behind his axe, and forced the elf back.
Caradryan wrenched his halberd to the side, trying to twist the axe out of his opponent’s grip, but Arbaal was ready for such a tactic, and he drove a fist into the elf’s belly. Caradryan staggered back, and lurched aside as Arbaal tried to smash him from his feet.
The axe gashed his arm, and Caradryan bit back a scream. His blood hissed and bubbled as it splattered Arbaal�
��s cuirass, and the Chaos champion hesitated, giving Caradryan a chance to put distance between them. As he retreated, Caradryan cursed himself for a fool. If he hadn’t moved when he had, Arbaal’s blow would have taken his arm off. He could feel the fire within him, demanding to be let out. But to do so would be to doom his warriors to certain death. Arbaal charged towards him, axe ready. The weapon howled as it came around. Only one chance, he thought.
Caradryan spun about and leapt backwards over the sweeping blow. He tumbled through the air and dropped down behind Arbaal. Even as the champion whirled to face Caradryan, the Phoenix Blade slashed out. Ancient armour, crafted in Khorne’s own forges, ruptured as the fiery blade tore upwards through it. Arbaal sagged backwards, clutching at the wound. He raised his axe, but Caradryan hacked his arm off at the elbow. Arbaal screamed in fury and lurched towards the elf, groping for him with his remaining hand.
Caradryan stepped back, out of reach, and pivoted, hammering the edge of his halberd into the space between Arbaal’s collar and the bottom of his helmet. The white-hot blade tore through the champion’s neck, and his head tumbled free to roll away across the cobbles. Caradryan sank back against a wall, panting. He placed a hand to the wound in his arm, and winced as his touch cauterised the bloody slash.
He looked up. Proud princes of drowned Caledor swooped fearlessly through the increasingly agitated skies on their dragons, braving the lightning and sorcerous fire that rained from the bloated clouds in order to drive back the enemy. As he watched, a dragon was struck by a Chaos-birthed bolt of emerald lightning and its smoking corpse plunged from the sky to demolish a row of ramshackle houses.
Below them, plunging recklessly through the plazas and streets of the Sudgarten and the Ulricsmund, came the remaining knights of Ulthuan, the Empire and even chill Naggaroth – Reiksguard galloped alongside Silver Helms and the shrieking, scaly shapes of Cold Ones. The wave of armour and horseflesh swept over and smashed down the enemy wherever they struck. And at their head rode the shining figure of the Dragon of Cothique, his blade searing the darkness and all those things which sought to hide in it. It was the greatest cavalry charge in the history of the world, led by the greatest hero the elven people had ever produced. And he was not alone – the Emperor was there as well, on the back of his griffon, Deathclaw. Where the great beast pounced, blood and horror ensued for the followers of Chaos.
Around Caradryan, his host battled on against the enemy as well. His warriors were cloaked and shielded by fire, and it spilled from their weapons to consume northman and daemon alike. And there were plenty of both to feed the growing conflagration. Even with the forces of Tyrion and the Emperor, they were hard-pressed. The closer they drew to the Temple of Ulric and the great excavation which marked it, the harder the servants of the Ruinous Powers fought. But they fight in vain, he thought.
Already, the less fanatical of the enemy were beginning to fall back. Especially those who had witnessed the defeat of Arbaal. The champion had slaughtered a score of Ulthuan’s finest before Caradryan had reached him, and like as not, he could have carried the day by himself. With his fall, his warriors were starting to retreat, and the daemons who had accompanied him were wavering into instability, their always-tenuous hold on the world slipping. Too, he could feel the presence of the other Incarnates, not just Tyrion and Karl Franz, but Nagash and the others as well, all drawing closer. They would be here soon, and if Teclis was to be believed, no power in the world could stand against them. Victory seemed not only possible, but imminent.
A bellow, deeper and more powerful than the loudest roll of thunder, pierced Caradryan’s burgeoning hopes and swept them aside. It echoed down from the sky and rose from the ground; it shivered through the bricks and tore through alleyways and escaped from cul-de-sacs. The sound reverberated through every cobblestone and he clutched his head in agony, even as he turned, seeking out the author of that cry.
A moment later, the sky erupted in fire. Blazing meteors pierced the clouds and smashed home amidst the battle, killing warriors from both sides indiscriminately. The cry continued, growing impossibly loud as more and more meteors hammered down, levelling buildings and pummelling streets into ruin. Caradryan swept his halberd out, summoning a shield of flame to protect those few of his warriors that he could reach. But it was to no avail. His flames were snuffed, and elves died. Caradryan snarled in fury and whistled for Ashtari. The phoenix rose from the corpse of Arbaal’s flesh hound with a single beat of its crimson wings and swooped towards him, dodging through the rain of burning debris. He caught hold of the bird’s harness and hauled himself up onto its back as it streaked past.
His warriors followed him as he flew on, each one knowing, even as Caradryan did, that to stand still, or to seek shelter, was to die. So they followed him, plunging through the fleeing ranks of the enemy and carving themselves a path towards their goal. The Temple of Ulric was within sight, and nothing – not the enemy, or the wrath of the Dark Gods themselves – would deter the sons and daughters of Ulthuan from reaching it.
Tyrion swept Sunfang out in a shimmering arc. The daemoness the Loremasters knew as Dechala, the Denied One, parried the blow, shrieking and cursing him in the ancient tongue of his people as her coils tightened about he and Malhandir. The battle swirled on around them, as the finest warriors of three kingdoms fought and died against the forces of the Dark Gods, and the sky wept fire. Nearby, what had once been a tavern exploded, filling the air with burning chunks of wood and stone.
Dechala’s many arms flailed at him as she rained blow after brutal blow down, but he blocked each of them with a speed which shocked even him. He could feel the power of Hysh flowing through him, lending him speed of body and mind. Whatever you have done to me, brother, wherever you are, thank you, he thought. The daemoness had come at him suddenly, out of the press of battle, striking like an adder. It was as if she had been hunting for him alone, but he suspected any Incarnate would have done. He caught sight of Deathclaw, swooping low over the battle, and saw the Emperor’s runefang flash and remove a bloodletter’s head as he passed it. Despite the situation, he was glad the daemoness had found him, rather than the human. Whoever or whatever he was, he was still no match for a creature like Dechala.
Dechala chose that moment to lunge for him, swift as the serpent she resembled, her beautiful features contorted with hate. Her jaws spread wide, and he was forced to catch hold of her chin with his free hand. The poison dripping from her fangs hissed and sputtered where it dripped onto his gauntlet. Tyrion shoved her head back, and her flesh began to smoulder where he touched it as his aura of light started to burn away her cloak of darkness. She shrieked and squirmed, tail lashing. Malhandir whinnied in pain as her coils tightened convulsively.
Tyrion parried a blow meant to gut him, and his riposte was swifter than even the daemoness could follow. Sunfang was a blur of light, and it pierced Dechala’s chest before she even had a chance to scream. The Denied One slumped, smoke rising from her, and her coils loosened and flopped quivering to the ground, to be trodden into ruin by Malhandir’s hooves. Tyrion urged his horse on, and the animal reared and lunged away from the dissolving ruin of the daemon princess even as a fiery meteor obliterated the spot where she had fallen.
He heard a familiar shriek from above, and saw Caradryan hurtle towards the Temple of Ulric in the distance, his host following in his shadow. Flaming blades and spears cut the host a path through the disorganised rabble of the Chaos forces. Tyrion grinned. Leave it to the silent one to lead the way, he thought. He hauled on Malhandir’s reins, and the stallion pawed the air with a whinny.
‘Ride,’ Tyrion roared with all the strength he could muster, to those of his warriors still fighting around him, whether they were human or elf. ‘Ride and fear no darkness. Ride, for the world, and the breaking of the gods!’ Even as his steed’s hooves struck the ground, the animal was in motion, charging in Caradryan’s wake. Those who could fell in behind him,
as fiery ruin continued to hammer the cursed city from above. Knights of Stirland, Altdorf and Ostland, of Cothique and Caledor, of Ghrond and Hag Graef, galloped in his wake. The proud survivors of three kingdoms, who looked to him for orders and inspiration.
Tyrion felt the weight of that responsibility keenly, even as he found joy in the sound of thundering hooves and the rattle of lances. He knew, in his heart, that this was the last charge of the world’s defenders. Even if they won, even if the Dark Gods were cast back, the flower of elven ithiltaen and of human chivalry would fall here, never to ride again. Win or lose, the pillars of his world had been broken. And we must see that it was not in vain, he thought. He leaned forwards, over Malhandir’s neck, and hacked down a northman standard bearer as he swept past.
The Temple of Ulric rose into sight as Tyrion galloped through the cramped streets of the Ulricsmund. The building was a shell of its former glory. It had been defiled and shattered by the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Tyrion recalled how Teclis had spoken of the city, when he had made common cause with the human Magnus against the forces of Chaos. Tyrion himself had been occupied fighting the druchii, after the battle of Finuval Plain. Teclis had said that Magnus had been a small man, and unimpressive at first glance, but filled with an inner fire that had been matched only by the Flame of Ulric itself. The same Flame that now coursed through Tyrion’s blood, and lent its strength to his own.
He heard a snarl, and looked over his shoulder to see the Emperor’s bodyguard, Wendel Volker, riding hard at his elbow. The Reiksguard looked almost as monstrous in that moment as their enemies, his eyes as yellow as a beast’s and his lips peeled back from teeth which were too long. Then the moment passed and he was but a man again. Tyrion turned away. He did not know for certain what force lurked in the human, but whatever it was, it made him as savage as any of the great lions of Chrace.
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 37