Malhandir whinnied, and Tyrion snapped out of his reverie with a curse. They were within sight of the great excavation which marred the side of the Temple and marked where the artefact Be’lakor had spoken of was housed, but even as they drew close, a blaze of crackling warpflame suddenly roared to life, blocking off their advance. Tyrion hauled back on Malhandir’s reins, bringing the horse to a sudden stop.
‘Can you do anything?’ a voice called down from above. Tyrion looked up as the Emperor’s griffon landed nearby. The human looked as exhausted as Tyrion felt, but he still gripped his sword firmly. ‘We are running short on time.’
‘I… don’t know,’ Tyrion said. He urged Malhandir forwards, aware that as he did so, he could hear a growing war-chant echoing from the north. The enemy had found their courage, now that the rain of fire had slackened, and were regrouping. Tyrion felt Hysh rise within him as he extended Sunfang towards the crackling flames. Through the multicoloured haze, he could see the robed shapes of Chaos sorcerers and capering daemons.
Light flared, rising from his every pore, driving back the dark all around him. The flames quavered as the light struck them, and recoiled for a moment before reforming, even stronger than before. Tyrion climbed down from Malhandir’s saddle and strode forwards, blade still extended. The flames gave way before him, but then roared up, as if to envelop him.
A gleaming halberd slid into place alongside Sunfang. Tyrion glanced aside, and saw Caradryan take up a position beside him. The Incarnate of Fire smiled thinly. ‘Let us face the fire together, heir of Aenarion,’ Caradryan rasped. Tyrion nodded tersely, and then turned back to the flames. Together, the two Incarnates drove their power against the warpfire barrier, trying to snuff it. Beads of sweat rolled down Tyrion’s face as he summoned the light and sent it frenzying forth to sear the unnatural flames. Beside him, Caradryan’s own flames burned hotter and brighter than the colourful daemon-inferno. But still, the warpfire barrier held.
Behind him, Tyrion could hear the Emperor shouting orders, reforming the ranks of the combined armies to face the attack that was imminent. The human was a commander without equal. But he also knew that this was no longer a battle for mortals… It was the Rhana Dandra and only gods could hope to keep their footing in the torrent of blood to come. He almost turned back, to lend his aid, when Caradryan grabbed his shoulder. He glanced at the former captain of the Phoenix Guard, and nodded. You are right, my friend… If these flames are not snuffed, we will all perish this day.
The howling grew louder and louder, until it beat at his ears. Tyrion risked a glance, and saw a nightmare horde burst through the streets and dash pell-mell towards the combined armies of men and elves. Northland hounds, lean and athirst, loped ahead of savage brutes which had once been men, before some fell power had driven all reason and humanity from them, reducing them to feral monstrosities. The berserker wave slammed into the allied lines, and died in droves. But not all of them, and some managed to drag a knight from his horse, or pounce on a spearman and bear him to the ground, their teeth in his throat.
Tyrion instinctively turned, his blade sweeping out. Light speared forth, and a group of howling barbarians were immolated in an instant. Before he could turn his attentions back to the barrier of flame, however, Caradryan shoved him aside. Tyrion hit the ground and rolled to his feet as a monstrous shape slammed down onto the street where he’d been standing. Tyrion raised his sword as the bloodthirster rose to its full height and turned towards him. The beast gestured with its hammer. ‘Ka’Bandha has come, elf,’ it roared. ‘You thought to escape me, mortals, but the Huntsman of Khorne will not be denied!’
‘Running wasn’t my idea, I assure you,’ Tyrion snarled. He darted in, and threw himself beneath the daemon’s first blow. As its hammer smashed down on the street, he was already on his feet. Sunfang whipped out, carving a trail of fire across the bloodthirster’s back. Ka’Bandha reared back and roared. It whipped around, and Tyrion was forced to leap back as the axe it clutched in its other hand crashed down, carving a gouge in the street. Before he could launch another attack, the daemon wrenched its weapon free of the street and reared back, slamming one massive hoof into his chest. Tyrion skidded backwards, his chest aching and no air in his lungs.
Before Ka’Bandha could take advantage of his predicament, however, the Emperor was there, his runefang singing as it carved through one of the bloodthirster’s wings, eliciting a shriek of fury. That shriek rapidly became a snarl of triumph, as Ka’Bandha whirled and smashed Deathclaw from the air with the flat of its axe. ‘You… Your skull is mine, human,’ Ka’Bandha roared, as it closed in on the fallen animal and its rider.
‘And yours is mine, hound of carnage,’ Caradryan grated, as Ashtari swooped around the bloodthirster’s head. The Phoenix Blade flashed and Ka’Bandha staggered as flames roared about it, singeing its unnatural flesh and scorching its brass armour. But the beast did not fall, no matter how many wounds Caradryan opened in its hide.
Ka’Bandha bellowed and swung its hammer out, catching the phoenix as it dived past. The great bird fell with a scream and the bloodthirster was on it in an instant, with fatal results. The daemon’s hammer rose and fell with deadly precision, and the last phoenix of the Flamespyres died. Caradryan, who had fallen from his saddle, hacked at the daemon in a fury, and his halberd, wreathed in white-hot flames, crashed down on Ka’Bandha’s skull hard enough to shatter the brass crown the daemon wore, and to open its scalp to the bone.
Ka’Bandha, blinded by its own ichor, lashed out wildly, trying to drive the Incarnate back. As Tyrion dragged himself to his feet, he saw one wild swing of the hammer catch Caradryan in the legs, and he heard the snap as the elf’s bones were shattered by the impact. Caradryan fell heavily, striking the hard rock of the Ulricsmund with crushing force, and his halberd was jarred from his hand as the bloodthirster bore down on him.
Tyrion, one arm wrapped around his side, staggered towards them, but was too slow. Ka’Bandha lifted one hoof high, over Caradryan, who strained to reach the haft of his weapon, which lay just out of reach. The daemon stamped down onto the Incarnate’s chest, and, with a thunderous crunch, Caradryan, captain of the Phoenix Guard, servant of Asuryan, died. Tyrion watched in horror as sparks of flame burst from the shattered corpse and took root in the bloodthirster’s flesh, running hungrily across its limbs, until no part of the daemon was not aflame. Ka’Bandha wailed and thrashed in obvious agony as it felt the wrath of Aqshy. Even so, the beast did not fall.
Tyrion saw Deathclaw hurtle towards the daemon once more, the Emperor clinging to his saddle, his blade sweeping out. But before his blow could land, Ka’Bandha lashed out, even as it had before, and struck the griffon from the air with its hammer, driving the beast into the rubble of the temple nearby. The Emperor was flung from his saddle by the impact, and thrown high through the remnants of a stained glass window and into the temple beyond. Tyrion’s heart sank as the bloodthirster turned towards him, grinning through the flames that ate at its bestial features. Though the fires burned it, its lust for battle had not dimmed.
‘Flee, blood-speck, and I shall save your skull for another day,’ Ka’Bandha gurgled, as it glared down at him. ‘Flee, little elf, and do not seek to come between the Huntsman and his prey this night.’
Tyrion straightened, and felt the fire sing in his veins. The light around him began to glow, and the daemon winced. It raised a hand, as if to shield its eyes. Tyrion raised Sunfang. ‘I do not bargain with daemons,’ he said. ‘I kill them.’
Then, with a yell, he launched himself towards Caradryan’s slayer.
The Temple of Ulric
The Emperor awoke in darkness, his face sticky with blood and his body a mass of aches and pains. Forgot what that was like, he thought sourly, as he pushed himself to his feet. The air was heavy, and a slaughterhouse stink was thick in his nostrils.
He looked around warily, hands flexing. He’d lost his ru
nefang somewhere between here and Ka’Bandha’s hammer, and he scanned his surroundings for something to take its place. He peered into the darkness, marking the body of a Chaos warrior nearby. The man’s sword was to hand. Though he was loath to touch it, beggars couldn’t be choosers. As he started forward, he took note of the corpses hanging from the ceiling on heavy chains and hooks.
With a start, he realised he was under the great dome of the temple. For a brief heartbeat, rage pulsed through him to see this most holy of shrines defiled so, but he regained control of himself quickly. ‘Work first, mourn later,’ he muttered.
‘Same old Sigmar.’
The voice slithered out of the dark. The Emperor froze, and then turned, following the echoes of laughter. He saw a throne of skulls and flayed skin rising above a dais of bones, and at its base, a familiar gleam of bronze. ‘Ha,’ he murmured. No cleansing flame, no sunlit morning, had ever seemed as beautiful as the sight of his hammer, gleaming in the dark. He stepped towards it, hand reaching out, but stopped as the laughter echoed again.
‘Yesssss, it is you. I knew it from the first. I smelt your stink on the wind the moment that fool elf freed you from the Vortex, Unberogen. For two thousand years, this world was free of you, but here you are, hiding in a dead man’s skin.’
Sigmar looked up as the alabaster-skinned figure climbed atop the back of the throne and spread great black wings. Eyes like polished opals shone as the horned head twisted about. ‘It has been a long time, my old friend,’ the daemon prince murmured. ‘Centuries since last we spoke, eh, Sigmar?’
‘Gerreon,’ Sigmar said. He felt the old hate welling up again, like a wound that had never properly healed. A woman’s face passed before his eyes, and receded into memory. This thing before him had been his friend, once upon a time. Now, it was a plaything of Chaos.
‘Azazel,’ the daemon prince corrected, gently. ‘Alas, no time to catch up, I’m afraid. No time to speak of better days, of loves lost and won. Time is speeding up, and the world judders to pieces in haste. I thought… well. One last moment, before the end.’ Azazel pointed at the fallen shape of Ghal Maraz, where it lay amidst the refuse of barbarity. ‘You want that filthy thing, cousin? Then come and take it, if you dare.’
Sigmar lunged for the hammer. Azazel gave a wild shriek of laughter and flung himself towards his prey, drawing a blade covered in ruinous sigils as he did so. The blade slammed down, inches from Sigmar’s head. The Emperor rolled aside. Azazel rose, wings stretching out. He stood between Sigmar and his weapon, and spread his arms as if in invitation. ‘A good effort, but not good enough. Not for this,’ Azazel said. He took a step towards Sigmar. ‘I wish that we had more time, my friend. I have been waiting so long to see you again.’
‘Can’t say the same, I’m afraid,’ Sigmar said.
Azazel laughed. ‘Oh, how I have missed you,’ he said. Then with a single snap of his wings, he hurtled forwards. His blade hissed as it whipped towards Sigmar’s neck. Sigmar twisted aside and flung himself towards his hammer. Even as he caught the haft, he heard the boom of Azazel’s wings. He rolled onto his back, and just managed to block the daemon prince’s blade with the haft of Ghal Maraz. For a moment, Azazel crouched above him. The blade writhed like a thing alive in his clawed grip. ‘Do you ever think of her, brother of my heart?’ Azazel purred, as he forced the blade down. ‘Do you recall her scent in lonely moments, or the way the light caught her hair? Do the memories press down on your heart, when you recall Ravenna? Do you spare even a thought for dear Pendrag?’ Azazel chuckled. ‘I know I don’t.’
‘I think about them always, Gerreon. As I have thought about this moment,’ Sigmar said, from between gritted teeth. He felt stronger than before, as if some part of him which had been missing up until now had returned. It wasn’t simply the presence of Ghal Maraz, but something else – as if a weight had been lifted from him. He heard the clash of steel in his head, and the song of distant stars. He pushed back against Azazel. The daemon prince’s eyes widened.
‘What are you–?’ Azazel began. Sigmar shoved the haft of the hammer up, and Azazel screeched as the edge of his own blade gashed his chest and throat. He tumbled backwards, wings flailing. His blood hissed as it burned the flagstones. Sigmar swept his hammer out, and inhuman bone splintered as the force of the blow tore the daemon prince’s sword from his grip. The sword wailed like a wounded cat as it was sent skidding across the floor.
Sigmar kicked him in the head as he tried to rise. The daemon prince yowled as the Emperor trod on his wings, pinning him in place. Sigmar raised Ghal Maraz over his head. ‘You said it yourself, Gerreon. There is no time. And so I send you back to the forge of souls more quickly than you deserve.’
‘No!’ Azazel shrieked. His eyes bulged in fear as he tried to tear himself free, to no avail. The hammer came down with thunderous finality. The great wings twitched once, and then fell still. Sigmar Unberogen looked down at the rapidly dissolving ruin of a man he’d once called friend, shook himself, and strode away, towards the sound of fighting.
There was a war to be won. And a world to be saved.
NINETEEN
The Ulricsmund, Middenheim
Wendel Volker grunted as his sword became lodged in the skull of a snarling northman, and he released it as the body slumped. He reached down and snatched up the axe of a fallen White Lion and spun it experimentally. Somehow, the axe, despite not being made for human hands, felt more natural in his hand than any sword ever had.
An axe is a warrior’s weapon, Ulric growled softly. Volker ignored the god and turned to chop a leaping Chaos hound out of the air, sending the dying beast crashing down nearby. He whirled back, and smashed aside a brass-faced shield before cleaving through the breastbone of its owner. He tore the axe free and spun, seeking more foes. He’d lost his horse in the first charge, but he’d never been comfortable with the animals. As far as Volker was concerned, being on a horse made you a target. Ulric seemed to feel the same way.
Anarchy reigned wherever Volker cast his gaze. Bellowed war cries and the clash of steel echoed across the city. All around him, men and elves were hard-pressed by the savage northmen. The latter seemed tireless, driven beyond all reason and discipline and into a red rage that ended only in death. They came again and again, hurling themselves at the dwindling ranks of the Empire and the elves, dying in droves but pulling down warriors in their death-throes. Even worse, the northmen were not alone in their assault. The clamour of battle was drawing enemies from all over the city, including beastmen and skaven.
A flare of light startled him, and he turned to see Tyrion still locked in combat with the bloodthirster. The elf was holding his own, but only just. The bloodthirster had already killed one Incarnate, and though it was wreathed in flames and bleeding from dozens of wounds, it didn’t seem to be slowing down. And Tyrion was beginning to tire.
A knight, bearing the bull emblem of Ostland on one pauldron, staggered into him. Volker grabbed his arm, and the knight tried to pull free. His armour was scorched and dented, and he’d lost his helmet. ‘Let go of me, damn you,’ he cried.
‘Get back in line,’ Volker snarled. The man paled and stumbled back.
‘The Emperor is dead,’ he shouted. ‘We cannot win!’
Volker tensed, and Ulric snarled within him. Before he could stop himself, he swung his axe and decapitated the knight. Cowardice is like a disease, Ulric growled, and it spreads as swiftly as any pox. Volker saw other men, knights and halberdiers, woodsmen and handgunners, staring at him in shock and fear. His fellow Reiksguard, whom he’d been fighting among, edged away from him. His gut churned, but he lifted the bloody axe high and bared his teeth. ‘Fight or die, men of the Empire,’ he snarled. He could feel the god adding his strength to Volker’s voice, making sure he was heard by every human ear on the field of battle. ‘I do not care which, but do it bravely, and do it well. Fight, in the name of Sigmar, who forged our E
mpire. Fight, in the name of Ulric, who forged our people! Fight and rend the enemy like the wolves who birthed you!’
A northman charged through the press towards him, bellowing incoherently. Volker spun the axe in his hands and brought it down in a two-handed grip, cleaving the barbarian from pate to jowl. He tore the axe free and gestured towards the enemy. ‘Fight, you Unberogens! Fight, you Teutogens, Jeutones and Brigundians, fight, sons of Ulric all! Fight until the Fauschlag quakes and the Dark Gods hide in fear,’ he roared. And they roared with him. He could feel the panic and dismay giving way to anger and determination as he charged towards the foe, his people at his back, and felt Ulric’s contented growl roll through him. Whatever else happened here today, the men of the Empire would not falter.
A new sound pierced the clangour of combat then, even as Volker led his people into battle. It rose from the south, spiralling up into the smoky air, and set the hair on the back of his neck to dancing. Through the madness of battle, he caught sight of green shapes flooding into the plaza. ‘Orcs,’ he muttered, as he slammed his shoulder into a bloodletter’s gut and flipped the daemon over his back. ‘As if things aren’t mad enough.’
Not just orcs, Ulric roared, elves as well. The Incarnates approach. Allies, Wendel Volker. Or if not allies, then those who come to make war on our enemies. He shuddered as the godspark howled within him, joyously this time. War, man, war so as to shake the pillars of heaven itself! See them, Wendel Volker, see how they come, scenting the blood of our prey!
Volker shook his head, trying to ignore Ulric’s howls and concentrate on the fight at hand. He heard someone shout his name, and jerked back as the Chaos warrior charging towards him was suddenly transmuted to gold. He turned and saw Balthasar Gelt riding towards him, the Everqueen sitting behind him on the pegasus’s back. ‘Volker, where is the Emperor?’ the wizard shouted. Volker signalled for his fellow Reiksguard to fall in around Gelt and Alarielle, and the remaining knights did so swiftly.
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