CHAPTER 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 chittering, 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 the 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.

Before the knights could move, the unlucky man was stuffed kicking and screaming into the monstrous thing’s wide maw. Scything fangs reduced the man to silent ruin, and the orb-like eyes of the beast rolled towards them. ‘Chaos spawn,’ Goetz spat. He swatted his shield with the flat of his sword. ‘Come on, ugly. Come to Hector. Come on!’ Sword and shield connected again, the sharp sound drawing the monster’s attention.

‘Goetz…’ Volker began.

‘Stay back,’ Goetz said warningly. He spread his arms, as if inviting the creature to attack. It duly obliged, bounding towards him with a thunderous croak. Its jaws spread like a hellish flower as it flung itself towards him. ‘Chew on this,’ Goetz snarled as he rammed the rim of his shield into the creature’s mouth. He hacked at its protoplasmic flesh, ignoring the lashing tendrils that sought to pull him apart. It grunted and moaned as his sword bit into it. Volker moved to help him, but Dubnitz grabbed his arm.

‘Don’t worry about Goetz, my friend,’ Dubnitz said. ‘He once killed a troll with nothing but a broken shield and harsh language. Man was touched by the gods – when there were gods, I mean.’ He snatched two fallen shields from the ground and tossed one to Volker, who caught it and slid it on just as the first of the enemy exploded out into the courtyard.

Volker’s shock and fear fell away from him as he blocked an axe-blow and brought his sword around and down on the northman’s skull. For a moment, the world shrank to the weight of the blade in his hand and the sound of metal biting flesh and bone. He remembered Heldenhame and the long, gruelling march to Altdorf; the retreat north, with roving warbands of skaven and beastmen dogging their heels; the promise of safety which was never quite fulfilled; the faces of friends who’d died on the way.

He stamped forwards, ramming his shield into a marauder’s chest, shoving the man back. He drove his heel down on the man’s instep, and caught him in the throat with the tip of his sword as he jerked back. In his mind’s eye, he saw bodies left lying in the snow and the mud. He heard the crying of children without parents, and the screams of parents without children. And above it all, he heard a booming laughter which he wanted to believe was simply distant thunder, but in his heart knew was anything but.

Nearby, Goetz backhanded a screaming tribesman with his shield, knocking the warrior flat. His sword was a blur of steel, and for a moment, Volker thought that the last Knight of the Blazing Sun might throw back the hordes of Chaos on his own. But more of the howling, wild-eyed northmen slipped past him and charged towards Volker and Dubnitz, the names of their vile gods spilling from their lips.

‘There are too many of them for us to hold here,’ Volker said. ‘Not alone – we can’t do it without reinforcements.’ He looked around, hoping to hear the tramp of boots or the clop of hooves, but all he saw were the bodies of the dead, and all he heard were the blasphemous cries of the enemy as they made their way over the drawbridge and through the gatehouse. Volker realised with a sinking sensation that he and his fellow knights were the only defenders left. ‘This isn’t fair,’ he whispered, his guts roiling as he lifted his shield to block a wild blow from a frothing beastman. He thrust his sword out instinctively, gutting the creature. He’d come all this way, survived so much – just for it to end here?

‘Way of the world, my friend,’ Dubnitz grunted, hewing at a Chaos marauder. Blood spattered the big man’s face and glistened in his wide, spade-shaped beard. He thrust his knee up between another opponent’s legs and opened the warrior’s skull from pate to chin.

‘What world?’ Goetz said, his bronze-hued armour dulled by dust and blood, as he whipped his blade out in a tight arc and opened the throats of three of the shrieking warriors pressing towards them. ‘Everything’s gone, Dubnitz, and we’re fighting over the damned ashes.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Dubnitz growled. ‘I’m fighting for that last bottle of Sartosan Red I’ve got chilling in the privy. I’ll be damned if one of these barbarians gets to enjoy it before I do. I didn’t fight my way out of what was left of Marienburg with it stuffed down my cuirass, just to miss out now!’

‘I’m sorry, did you say Sartosan Red?’ Volker asked, as he caught an axe-blow on his shield. ‘What year is it, then? And you told me we were out!’

‘Does it matter?’ Goetz asked. ‘It’s not like any of us will get the chance to drink it.’

‘Pay him no mind, Wendel, he’s a Talabeclander. Got the taste buds of a radish,’ Dubnitz said. He snagged the braided beard of his opponent and jerked the northman towards him. Their heads connected with a dull sound and the Chaos marauder staggered back, eyes wide. Dubnitz gave a laugh and lunged, spitting the man on his sword. He whirled and smashed aside the shield of another warrior, opening the man up to a skull-splitting blow from Goetz. ‘There we go – look at that. Just like old times, my friend,’ Dubnitz chortled.

‘Erkhart – look out!’ Volker reached for Dubnitz, even as the Chaos warrior’s blade erupted from the other knight’s chest. Dubnitz coughed and lurched forwards, pulling himself off the blade. He sank down to one knee, his hand clamped to the wound. Goetz caught the Chaos warrior a blow on the head, staggering him.

‘Get him up and out of here,’ he snarled, as he moved to confront the warrior who’d felled Dubnitz. The Chaos warrior came at him, roaring something in a guttural tongue. His sword seemed to drink up the blood that coated it, and it glowed with pale flames. Goetz moved quicker than Volker thought possible for a man in full plate, blocking his enemy’s blow and countering with one of his own. The two warriors traded blows in the breach, neither giving ground. Behind the Chaos warrior, more northmen mustered, ready to rush the gatehouse when the contest was over. Volker could see that Goetz was tiring, despite his spirited defence. He felt a grip on his arm and looked down into Dubnitz’s bloody grin.

‘Second privy from the left,’ Dubnitz said.

‘What?’

‘The wine, Wendel. Just in case you live through this,’ Dubnitz wheezed. He levered himself to his feet with Volker’s help. ‘Fall back. They’ll need you out there, and no sense in you dying here. Two will do as well as three. We will hold them here, as long as possible.’

‘You’ll die,’ Volker protested.

‘Really? Hadn’t thought of that. You’re right. You stay, we’ll go.’ Dubnitz caught the back of Volker’s head and gave him an affectionate shake. ‘Don’t be an idiot. My guts would trip me up before I took two steps, and poor Hector has been looking for a place to die since Talabheim.’ He smiled weakly. ‘It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? I thought I’d die at the hands of an irate husband. At the very least, I’d do it in Marienburg. Still, one place is as good as any other. Like Hector’s late, lamented brothers were wont to say, we do what must be done.’ He pushed away from Volker. ‘Remember – second one from the left. Don’t let it go to waste,’ Dubnitz called, as he staggered towards the gatehouse. Along the way he snatched up one of the braziers the sentries had used for light, and hefted it like a spear.

As Volker began to back away, he saw Dubnitz give a shout and lurch into the Chaos warrior, smashing the armoured brute from his feet with the brazier. Goetz was too busy to capitalise on his foe’s predicament, as the massed ranks of the enemy gave a roar and charged into the courtyard. Goetz hefted his shield and readied himself to meet them.

The first of the invaders reached him, and their shields slammed together. Goetz was shoved back, but his sword slid across the top of both shields and through his enemy’s visor. He wrenched the blade free and shoved the body back, even as a number of slavering Chaos spawn bounded towards him and Dubnitz out of the smoke, their jaws wide. Dubnitz shoved himself to his feet, and for a moment, his eyes met Volker’s. He grinned briefly, displaying blood-stained teeth, and winked before he swung around, catching the first of the spawn in the side of its malformed head with the brazier.

Volker turned away. He heard Goetz cry out the name of his goddess, and then he was staggering out of the courtyard, chest heaving. A rank of levelled spears awaited him, protruding from within a wall of locked shields. He stopped short, and then turned as a wild scream caught his attention. A northman charged out of the courtyard, axe raised. And then another, and another. Volker backed away, shield ready. He killed the first of them, grief and anger adding strength to his blow. The second slammed into him, and they fell in a tangle. Volker slammed the pommel of his sword against the warrior’s head, and then opened his throat to the bone.

Before he could get to his feet, the third was upon him, axe raised for a killing stroke. Volker tensed to receive the blow he knew was coming. Sorry, Erkhart, he thought. I guess that wine will go to waste after all.

Moments before the barbarian’s blow landed, a warhorse interposed itself, and a hammer sang down, driving the warrior to the ground in a broken heap. Volker looked up into the eyes of the Herald of Sigmar himself, and felt the despair of only a few moments before begin to give way before a surge of hope. ‘Are you the last?’ Valten asked, his voice carrying easily above the din of battle.

‘I… yes,’ Volker croaked, trying not to think of the others. I’m sorry, he thought again.

Valten nodded brusquely, and turned his head towards the gatehouse. ‘Then on your feet, Reiksguard. I need every man who can stand. The enemy is coming, and I would welcome them properly.’

Canto Unsworn strode over the tangle of bodies that blocked the way into the gatehouse courtyard. Dead Chaos spawn, tribesmen and the armoured figures of several of Halfgir’s more eager Headsmen were in evidence, as were the bodies of the defenders, one clad in bronze, the other in green. Two men, he thought. Horvath strode past him, kicking a plumed helmet aside. ‘Two men did all of this,’ Canto said, keeping pace with him as they headed for the shattered portcullis at the far end of the courtyard at a fast lope.

‘Khorne will welcome their skulls,’ Horvath growled. They stepped out of the courtyard and into a melee. Canto saw Count Mordrek wading through the enemy with casual disregard, his blade shrieking in pleasure as it tore the humanity from its victims.

‘Maybe so, but I’m not very keen on this invasion if that’s the sort of welcome we can expect,’ Canto said as he parried the blow of a desperate halberdier. ‘These sorts of things have a way of – well, let’s be blunt, shall we? – spinning out of control.’

‘Silence, Unsworn,’ Horvath growled as he chopped through an upraised shield and into the man cowering beneath it.

‘All I’m saying is, this just proves that things could go very badly, very quickly. Pivotal moments, Horvath. They’re an unsteady sort of foundation to build future endeavours on.’

‘By all of the names of all of the gods, would you be silent, Canto? You’ve been yammering incessantly since Praag,’ Horvath hissed. ‘If Halfgir were to hear you…’

‘Halfgir caught a cannonball in the gut coming up the viaduct. He’s not hearing anything any time soon,’ Canto said, not without some humour. ‘I suppose that means you’re in charge of the warband now – Horvath’s Headsmen, they’ll call us.’

‘I said be silent,’ Horvath snarled, slapping a swordsman aside. ‘By the brass balls of Khorne, do you ever shut up?’

Canto didn’t reply. An Ulrican priest circled him, moving lightly across the blood-slick cobbles, hammer raised, wolf-skin cloak flapping. Canto concentrated on the man’s sweaty, snarling features, waiting for that oh-so-familiar tightening of skin around the eyes that would betray his next move. Flesh crinkled, and the Ulrican stamped forwards, hammer whirling. Canto twisted aside at the last moment, and the hammer smashed down, ­shattering cobbles. Before the priest could recover, Canto drove his sword through the man’s side. The Ulrican howled, and Canto twisted his blade and shoved, chopping through the man’s spine and out of his back in a spray of blood.

He was already moving forwards as the body flopped to the ground. Swords and spears sought him from every direction, and he chopped and slashed, trying to clear himself room. The Empire troops were beginning to waver. Already the rear ranks were retreating. But there were still enough of them to prove troublesome. Tilea, Estalia, maybe even Cathay, but no – Kislev. You chose to go to Kislev, he thought. But that was a lie. There had been no choice. He and Horvath and all of the others, the whole innumerable horde-to-end-all-hordes, were like drowning men caught in a maelstrom. There was no way to break its pull, no way to escape. You could only go with the tide, and hope you drowned later, rather than sooner.

Or, in the case of some men, that you drowned at all.

Count Mordrek lashed out with the flat of his blade and his fist, driving back his own allies. Marauders stumbled back in confusion as Mordrek cleared a space between the two sides. The soldiers of the Empire, in contrast to their enemies, seemed only too glad for the momentary respite. Mordrek whirled about and pointed at a figure on horseback with his sword. ‘Herald of Sigmar! I see thee, I name thee and I demand thy presence!’ he roared, in archaic Reikspiel. ‘Count Mordrek challenges thee, son of the comet.’

Canto lowered his own blade. ‘So that’s why you were in such a blasted hurry,’ he muttered. Around him, Horvath and the others had realised what was about to happen. Gore-encrusted weapons began to smash against shields, or thump against the cobbles. Canto examined the warrior that Mordrek had called to, and felt a stirring of recognition as the man urged his horse through the ranks of the state troops. He’d seen that face before, during the battle at the Auric Bastion. And he recognised the heavy warhammer clutched in his hand, as well. ‘Skull-­Splitter,’ he hissed.

‘What?’ Horvath grunted.

‘That’s Sigmar’s hammer, dolt,’ Canto said. ‘The Skull-Splitter itself. I saw it used once, a long time ago. Some self-righteous prig from Nuln was using it to put the fear of his god into the enemy at the battle of the Bokha Palaces. Like a thunderbolt wrapped in gold,’ he murmured, lost for a moment in images of the past. That was when he’d first set his foot on the path to immortality and ruin. In Kislev, when another Everchosen had been knocking on the door of the world, Canto had been given a choice. And he’d made the wrong one. But who knew old Wheezy von Bildhofen would become Emperor? Not me. How was I to know? Not a sorcerer, am I? I did my bit, he thought, centuries of bitterness welling up as fresh as the day he’d chosen not to slip a knife in the back of his old school-mate, out of some misguided sense of – what? – friendship? Pity? Or something else… Fear, maybe.

And now here we are again, Canto. Part of the Army of the End Times, only this time you’re being honest about whose side you’re on, aren’t you? he thought, watching… Valten, that was his name, riding towards them, carrying the weapon of a god. Unease gnawed at his gut as Valten drew closer. It wasn’t just the hammer; it was everything about him – the set of his shoulders, the armour he wore, the look in his eyes. All of it screamed ‘danger’, the same way von Bildhofen had, so many centuries ago.

‘On this day, I at last see clearly. The world is once more real to me. The voices of the gods have guided me to this moment. Time, fate and destiny grow thin, and there is only the now. A chance to feel alive,’ Mordrek continued as Valten approached. His voice, rusty with disuse, began to grow stronger as he spoke. ‘The gods demand that I kill you, Herald, and then they will free me. But they lie. They always lie, even when it serves no purpose.’

Valten slid from his horse and strode towards Mordrek, hammer in hand. As he drew close, Canto felt a quiver of fear blossom in him. He looked around and saw that he was not alone in feeling out of sorts. A shape, larger than any man, at once ghostly and somehow more real than the world around it, crouched within that husk of flesh, and it was hungry. It was so terribly hungry. It hungered for split skulls and splintered bones, for battle and cleansing fire. In Valten’s footsteps, Canto could hear the rattle of spears, the roar of warriors, the howl of wolves and, above it all, the dull, ponderous rhythm of a hammer slamming down on an anvil. He’d heard that sound before, at the Bokha Palaces, in the words of a man named Magnus. It rang in his skull like the stroke of doom, and he began to edge back.

‘What is that? What is it?’ Horvath growled hoarsely, eyes wide. ‘Is it a daemon?’

‘Did you think we were the only ones with gods, you blood-drunk fool?’ Canto snapped.

A warrior, unable to control himself, broke from the ranks and charged towards Valten, howling out a prayer to the Skull Throne. Mordrek cut his legs out from under him before he’d gone far, and then beheaded the writhing spawn that erupted from the dying man’s tattooed flesh. He spun, arms spread, driving them back with the force of his fury. ‘This day is mine! I have been waiting for it always. I will not be denied. Not by gods or men or even the Three-Eyed King himself,’ he roared.

Point made, he turned back to Valten, who had stopped some distance away, hammer held low. Mordrek lifted his sword. ‘I know the fire which snarls in me, Herald. Even in death, it burns. It cannot be extinguished, not even by the gods themselves. It can only be snuffed by the hand of the one fated to do it. By your hand! Never more to be raised up, never more to be kindled anew. Kill me if you can, Herald of Sigmar,’ the tall warrior intoned. ‘And Count Mordrek, once-lord of Brass Keep, once-elector, once-son of a forgotten Emperor, shall sing your praises in the world to come.’ He struck his cuirass with a clenched fist.

‘Gladly,’ Valten said. That single word sent a ripple of unrest through the men around Canto, and he could not blame them. The word was a promise, and a prophecy. Mordrek made a sound deep in his throat, like an eager dog, and he sprang forwards.

Cursed blade and godly hammer connected in a shower of sparks. A shriek, like that of a dying goat, echoed through the streets as the daemon trapped in Mordrek’s weapon felt the touch of Ghal Maraz. They duelled back and forth, moving almost too fast for Canto to follow.

Mordrek lunged, stamped and thrust, wielding his sword two-handed. Valten blocked every blow but launched few of his own, content to prolong the fight for as long as possible. A moment later, Canto realised why. Past the fight, he saw that the Empire ranks were beginning to thin. He felt a smile creep across his face. Clever, he thought. No wonder Valten had agreed to the duel. While they were occupied watching Mordrek work out his frustrations, the enemy were slipping away. He considered bringing it to someone’s attention, and then dismissed the thought. He wasn’t in charge, and it wasn’t as if there were anywhere to go. If those men didn’t die here, they’d die somewhere else. At this point, it was a foregone conclusion.

Mordrek’s blade screeched as it skidded across Valten’s pauldron, drawing smoke from the metal. Valten turned into the blow and his hammer smashed into Mordrek’s belly, catapulting him off his feet. Mordrek hit the ground and rolled. Valten stalked forwards as Mordrek levered himself up, one arm wrapped around his stomach. Mordrek, still on one knee, extended his sword towards Valten, holding him at bay.

‘Pain,’ Mordrek rumbled. ‘I have felt so much pain. Pain will not kill me, Herald. My will is strong, and I will not be denied.’ He lunged to his feet, sword whirling over his head. Valten ducked aside as the blade snarled down, cleaving a cobblestone in two. Mordrek spun, and his sword lashed out again. It connected with a hastily interposed hammer. Even so, the force of the blow nearly knocked Valten from his feet. ‘Fight, damn you,’ Mordrek roared. ‘Fight me, Herald. I am here to kill you – to spare the Three-Eyed King your wrath, and see that the desires of the gods are not thwarted. But I do not care about Archaon, or the petty wants of fate. What shall be or would have been is not my concern. Fight me. Kill me!’

Valten did not reply. He swatted aside Mordrek’s next blow and sent Ghal Maraz shooting forwards through his grip, so that it crunched into the visor of Mordrek’s helmet. Mordrek staggered back. The terrible hammer licked out and smashed down on Mordrek’s sword arm. His blade fell from nerveless fingers and clattered to the ground, where it screeched and wailed like a wounded animal. Valten stamped down on it and kicked it aside before Mordrek could retrieve it.

The hammer snapped out, and Canto winced as one of Mordrek’s knees went. Mordrek sank down with a groan, and the world seemed to shudder slightly, as if it were out of focus. The hammer dropped down, crushing a shoulder, then a clawing hand. Canto risked a look up at the howling sky, and saw no leering faces. The gods had turned away from this battle now. Were they disappointed, he wondered? Part of him hoped so. Part of him hoped that here and now Mordrek would slip their leash. He turned his attentions back towards the duel.

Mordrek knelt before the Herald of Sigmar, head bowed, his armour shuddering slightly, as if what it contained were seeking escape. Mordrek made no move to stand. He looked up as Valten’s shadow fell over him.

‘I never had a chance,’ Count Mordrek said. He sounded happy.

‘No,’ Valten said.

Mordrek began to laugh. The eerie sound slithered through the air, and even the most slaughter-drunk warrior fell silent at its approach. Mordrek bowed his head again. The hammer rose. When it fell, the mountain shuddered. The sky twisted, and the wind howled. An empty suit of armour rattled to the ground. Thus passed Count Mordrek the Damned, wanderer of the Wastes and exile of the Forbidden City.

The Herald of Sigmar turned to face the ranks of the invaders. In his cool blue gaze was a promise of death and damnation. He raised his hammer, and the closest of them drew back. Their gods were not here, and there would be no help. Canto shivered inside his armour, and wondered if there were any champion among them who was equal to the man before them.

Valten held their gaze as the moment stretched. Then he turned, caught his horse’s bridle, and swung himself into the saddle. He turned the animal around without hurry, and rode away, after his retreating troops.

The northern gatehouse had fallen to the enemy.