CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Ulricsmund, Middenheim

An angry red dusk had fallen over the Fauschlag. Strange lightning carved the sky into facets, and the streets boiled with activity. War had again come to Middenheim; only now it was the servants of the Everchosen who found themselves under siege, and on multiple fronts.

The heart of the Ulricsmund, within sight of the Temple of Ulric, was one such front. Caradryan, Incarnate of Fire and Chosen of Asuryan, had not wasted time wondering how he had come from Athel Loren to the blasted streets of a human city, or what had happened to the other Incarnates. Indeed, there had been no time to even consider it.

Scarcely had the storm of magic about him and those elves who found themselves at his side ebbed when they found themselves under attack from the axe-wielding, black-armoured Kurgan they now faced. Wreathed in fire, the Phoenix Blade hissed as it smashed home into the chest of a howling northman and sliced him into two blackened halves. Before the edge of the blade could strike the blood-smeared cobbles, Caradryan had reversed the stroke, pivoted, and removed the head of a second northman.

Fire crawled along his lean limbs, and his hair crackled like a halo of flame as he fought. He’d lost his helmet during the battle in Athel Loren, but it was of no matter. He moved swiftly, the Phoenix Blade an extension of his arms. The haft slid through his grip as he raised the ancient halberd and spun, letting it sing out to its full length. Northmen fell back in a bloody tangle as he completed the turn. He retracted the weapon, pulling it in tight even as he came to a halt, before punching it forward to spit a slavering Chaos hound in mid-leap.

The captain of the Phoenix Guard tossed the dying beast aside and fell into a defensive stance as he retreated back towards the other elves. The sutras of Asuryan ran through his head as he gauged the strengths and weaknesses of the enemies who pressed close about him, pursuing him. Chaff before the wind, he thought. It was not arrogance which prompted that conclusion, though once it might have been. He had been arrogant in his time, possessed of a certainty in his own superiority. It had taken a god to humble him, to show him the truth of his place: to show him that just because he was alive, that didn’t mean he truly lived, and that just because he could speak, that didn’t mean he should.

You must crawl before you can walk, boy, Asuryan had said, his voice rising from the flames in the holy Chamber of Days. I will teach you, though in time, you might wish I had not. And he had. His lessons had begun that day, and a callow, spiteful brat had become, if not a better elf, at least a more tolerable one.

He signalled silently for the archers among his miniscule host to let loose a volley. Arrows hissed overhead, and the front ranks of the Kurgan fell. The rest retreated in disarray. Now that the initial impulse to violence had been curtailed, the northmen seemed to be coming to grips with the fact that an enemy force had materialised in their very midst. They wouldn’t remain hesitant for long, he knew. Then they would come again, and he and his small band would be overwhelmed.

He looked west, towards the slag-heaps and spoil piles which had been at his back when he’d arrived. Immense clouds of smoke and soot rose into the air above the area, and he recalled Be’lakor’s taunts about the artefact Archaon was looking for. He frowned, wishing that the voice of Asuryan still whispered to him. But he did not. Asuryan, like all of the gods, was dead. But his servants would do what they could, in his absence and in his name. Even if that meant nothing more than dying well.

Roars and shouts rippled from between the ruined buildings which loomed above and around them. The Kurgan were regrouping. Chieftains and champions would be restoring order, and in a few moments, the enemy would be upon them again.

Never before had his fate weighed so heavily on him. Even the power caged in his body was no guarantor of his survival; after all, that power, the raw fury of Aqshy, had consumed Ungrim Ironfist in the end. Is that my end, then? he thought. To be consumed in flames, like Ashtari?

He looked up, and saw the firebird swoop low over the elves. The great bird shrieked. His kind had long dwelt amongst the Flamespyres of Ulthuan, laying their eggs amongst the great alabaster pillars of rock, where magical flames flickered eternally. Now, with Ulthuan’s destruction, there were no more Flamespyres, and there would be no more firebirds. A wave of sadness swept through him as Ashtari’s shadow passed over him, and the cry of the bird reverberated through his bones. No, there would be no more firebirds.

But they could burn brightly one last time, before the end.

Yes. We can all burn. The thought passed across his consciousness as Asuryan’s whispers had once done. For a moment, it was as if the god were still alive. Fire does not diminish as it is divided, he thought. Instead, it only grows stronger. He almost laughed for the simplicity of it. What good was caging the fire in one warrior, when it could lend its strength to many? He raised the Phoenix Blade, and felt Aqshy struggle within him, seeking its freedom. He reversed his halberd and drove it down, blade-first, into the ground. Now you are unchained, he thought, go, spread and avail them of your strength. The fire rose around him, licking out to engulf those elves closest to him, even as the Kurgan mounted their charge.

As the northmen thundered towards them, Aqshy blazed forth, the flames growing and dividing a thousandfold. It spread through the ranks of his tiny army, and flames flickered to life along the edges of blades and in the eyes of his warriors, whether they had been born in Ulthuan, Athel Loren or Naggaroth. Fatigued bodies straightened with new strength, and warriors shouted, their spirits renewed. Caradryan rose to his full height, the Phoenix Blade held out before him. He watched the enemy draw close, and the last captain of the Phoenix Guard smiled.

‘In the name of Asuryan,’ he said, pitching his voice to carry for the first time in centuries, ‘and for the fate of our people… charge!’

The Wynd, South-east of the Ulricsmund

So, you yet live, eh? Malekith thought, as he caught a glimpse of the fire suddenly rising above the rooftops of the Ulricsmund. In Malekith’s opinion, of them all, Caradryan was the least suited to wield the powers he had come by. Better by far that it had been given to one more suited to such things.

Still, one must make do, he thought, as he guided Seraphon through the reeking air above the city, towards the distant smoke. He recognised the telltale sign of an excavation immediately, having overseen similar enterprises in his life. How many magical baubles had he dug out of the mountains and ice-floes, forced to grub about like a dwarf while seeking an easier path to the power so long denied him? ‘Pity I never thought to simply rip it out of the Vortex, eh, Seraphon?’ he said, and stroked the dragon’s long neck. The black dragon screeched and unleashed another searing cloud of fire into the tangle of streets below.

Malekith leaned forwards in his saddle and peered down at the battle taking place below. His forces, such as they were, swept through the narrow streets and drove the skaven before them. The ratmen had been surprised to see the enemy on their doorstep and Malekith had seized the advantage, driving his cohort on, the Eternity Guard at the fore. In the tangled streets the skaven could not bring their numbers to bear, and his warriors harried them mercilessly.

The skaven were detestable creatures, barely worth unsheathing his sword for. He contented himself with sending his shadow-shapes to draw blood in his place, while he sat safely astride Seraphon. The dragon screeched again, and incinerated another squalid nest. Skaven ran shrieking into the open, their greasy fur alight. Malekith laughed.

His laughter faded as he looked up at the sky. Things pressed heavily against the clouds, half visible but wholly incomprehensible. He felt all mirth drain from him. It was as if the skin of the world were stretched too tight over some gangrenous wound. He could smell the foulness of it on the wind, and feel it in his blood.

Memories of another moment and another sky like that crashed down on him, and the Eternity King shuddered in his armour. He had stepped into the realms of Chaos once, in a desperate gamble, and fought his way free only by dint of luck and willpower. The sky in that dread country, where time and space had no meaning save that which was given them by the whims of deranged gods, had looked the same.

‘The world is dying, Seraphon,’ he murmured, stroking the dragon’s scales. ‘All of our striving has come to nothing, it seems. Even as my deceitful mother swore.’ He smiled beneath his mask. ‘So be it. I am king, and I will face the end as a king.’ He leaned back in his saddle, his cloak of shadows rippling about him as he gazed up at the roiling sky. ‘Heed me well, you puny gods. Malekith, son of Aenarion, last true lord of the elves, has come to meet you on the battlefield. And as my father before me, I shall carve my name into your mind, so that you might shudder at the mere thought of it for all eternity. I shall break your fragile schemes, throw down your blood-soaked champions, burn your halls of decadent indulgence and scour the plague-ridden earth with cleansing fire.’

He drew his sword. ‘You will win in the end, because that is the way of it. But I shall poison your victory with my last breath. Do you hear me?’ he roared, casting his words into the howling winds. ‘I shall not go lightly into destruction. I shall burn like a black sun, and you shall know fear before my standard is cast down. I will break this world before I let you claim it. This I swear.’ He swept his blade out as magical lightning slammed down around him, shatte­ring buildings and casting the bodies of the dead high in the air. The sky twisted in on itself, and the red light grew darker.

Malekith paid it no mind. He bent over, urging Seraphon to greater speed. Let all the gods stand in his way, if they dared. He was the Eternity King, and this world was his. And he would not lose it now, not without a fight.

Neumarkt

Arkhan the Black watched in satisfaction as Krell and the Doomed Legion brought the gift of death to the enemies of Nagash. It had been but the work of moments to lend his sorcerous might to the great spell Teclis had woven in Athel Loren. Another power, too, had been there, lending aid, and between them, they had bolstered the reach of the spell so that more than just those in Athel Loren were caught up in its folds.

Almost the entirety of Nagash’s army had been plucked from the pine-crags and transported to the streets of Middenheim to join their master for the final battle. And it was the final battle. Arkhan could feel it in his bones. It was like an ache, edging towards true pain, and he welcomed it. He reached up to touch the Everchild’s mark on his chest. Would her curse reveal itself soon, he wondered? Would it even get the chance? The very bedrock of the world was shifting beneath his feet, and he felt that soon it might swallow them all. Even Nagash himself might not survive. He pushed the thought aside, even as it occurred to him.

Oblivion, he thought. To sleep at last, no more to be awoken, no more to be set on the war-road. He watched as the northmen, heavy with sleep and ale, died swiftly beneath the axe of Krell. Do you welcome the end, as I do? he wondered, watching the wight wade through the enemy with obvious glee. Krell was an enigma to the living, but to Arkhan he was a brute, barely chained by Nagash’s sorcery, a creature not wholly one thing or another. Now he fought those he once might have led, and without hesitation. No, he decided. No, Krell would not welcome an end to his days of slaughter.

Nor would others, Arkhan suspected. Vlad was in this city somewhere – he could feel the vampire’s black soul, pulsing like a ghost-light – and he had no intention of succumbing to oblivion. Vlad was as treacherous as Mannfred, and, worse yet, far wiser than his protégé. When the end came, when the Great Work at last came to its resolution, Vlad would pit himself against Nagash; else why would he seek to curry favour with humans and elves alike?

And he was not the only one. Neferata too would rally her followers, and set her standards in opposition to the Undying King. Arkhan felt some slight satisfaction at the thought… He had counselled Nagash to leave her as castellan of Sylvania for that very reason. Let Neferata cull the more treacherous elements of the dead for her own armies. Best to know who the enemy was, when the time came.

‘COME,’ Nagash said. Arkhan looked up at his master. Nagash surveyed the carnage as if it were of no more import than a squabble for table scraps between dogs. The Great Necromancer started forwards, almost floating as the spirits of the dead rose to join the throng which surrounded him. Arkhan followed in his wake, lending his spells to those of his master as they drew those slain by Krell and his wights back to their feet and added them to the already substantial horde. Nagash, it seemed, intended to drown the city in an ocean of corpses.

It was an effective tactic, if lacking in finesse. Arkhan glanced at his master. Then, the Undying King had never been one for finesse. But once, at least, he had understood subtlety. Now, even that seemed to have been discarded. In his own way, Nagash was just as much a brute as Krell – he was not human, not any more. Nor was he the liche who had resurrected Arkhan to serve him in Nagashizzar. He had become something else, something far closer to the gods of old Nehekhara. A vast, irresistible force aimed at a distant target.

Cries filled the air. Arkhan looked up. Few buildings still stood in this part of Middenheim, and those that were in evidence had been repurposed into slave pens. Arkhan saw that many, if not all, of the captives were clad in the ragged and faded uniforms of a number of provinces. As the northlanders flooded past the ramshackle gates of the pens, the slaves had begun to cheer, but those cheers became screams as they saw the dead shambling in their captors’ wake.

‘Should we free them? Such chattel might be useful, in the coming fray,’ Arkhan said, looking up at Nagash. The other Incarnates, he knew, would look kindly on such an action. Such small mercies were the way to bind their unwilling allies to them all the more tightly.

‘YES. WE SHALL FREE THEM,’ Nagash intoned. He reached out a hand, and Arkhan felt the Winds of Death rise. Amethyst light played about Nagash’s outstretched claw, and then a darkling fire washed across the stinking pens which covered Neumarkt, choking the life from all it touched. The screams rose to a fever pitch, and then, all at once, fell silent.

But they did not stay silent for long. Soon, every corpse in Neumarkt was rising to its feet, and making to join the still-shambling throng. They smashed from their pens, and rose from the streets, and fell in with the horde, which continued on through the city and into what had once been the Great Park. Arkhan said nothing as the dead swarmed. Nagash was his master, and Arkhan’s will had never been his own. Better to argue with the storm, than with the Undying King.

There, amongst the burned-out trees and bald earth, the enemy had chosen to make their stand. The horde lurched to a stop at a simple gesture from Nagash. Arkhan took in the thick ranks of steel shields which lined the park’s eastern overlook, and the warriors who crouched behind them. Behind this bulwark, sorcerers chanted loudly, tracing strange sigils in the air, and the air grew hot and foul as fell sorceries were worked.

Nagash laughed. The distant chants faltered and fell silent, as the sound of it crawled across the park and into the ears and hearts of the enemy. It was a terrible sound, like the crackle of ice-covered bones as they were trod underfoot.

Nagash looked down at Arkhan, his eyes glowing balefully. He swept out his staff to indicate the followers of Chaos. ‘LOOK, MY SERVANT. MORE SLAVES TO BE FREED.’ Nagash set his staff and set the dead to moving again with but a thought.

‘LET US SHATTER THEIR CHAINS.’

The Palast District

Vlad von Carstein caught the northman’s chin and wrenched his head to the side. There was a sharp pop as the man’s neck snapped, and the vampire sank his fangs into the dying man’s throat. When he had finished, he shoved the body aside to join the others, and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. The blood tasted foul, but it was nourishing enough.

The group of northmen, clad in reeking furs and black iron, had been as surprised as he when he’d appeared suddenly in their midst. He’d felt the magics that Teclis had invoked, but had not grasped their intent until he had been surrounded by startled warriors. He’d recovered his wits first, and then butchered the lot. He looked around. He recognised the Palast District easily enough, though it had been substantially redecorated since he’d last visited Middenheim.

‘Ah, Jerek, my old friend, you would weep to see your city treated so,’ he murmured as he took in the sheer, bewildering scope of the desecration which had occurred. Even Konrad, bloody butcher that he had been, would have been in awe. The gardens and palaces he had once known so well were now lost beneath a charnel shroud.

Lacerated offerings to the Blood God hung from gore-slicked trees, or lay chained in fountains given over to bubbling blood. Bodies hung from gibbets or crow-cages, or were impaled on fire-blackened stakes. Some of the victims of these tortures still lived, mewling pitifully, their eyes gouged out and their tongues cut loose from their moorings. Even Vlad, who thought he had seen the worst the world could offer up in his centuries of life, was disgusted by it all. There was no artistry here, no purpose to the pain, and thus it was all a monumental waste. And if there was one thing Vlad could not abide, it was waste.

This was what awaited the world, if the Incarnates failed. He shook his head, more determined than ever to see this affair put to rest. He passed through the blood-sodden gardens like a ghost, delivering the mercy-stroke more than once on his way. Sounds of battle echoed through the district, and every figure he observed – be it armoured northerner or, more disturbingly, feral, pale-fleshed elf woman – was running south.

He followed them at a safe distance, killing only when necessary to hide his presence, and keeping to the walls and rooftops when he could. He was certain, given the sounds of battle wafting back towards him, that he would find allies at the end of his journey, though whether they would be in any state to aid him was another matter. He pursued the horde to the heart of the Middenplatz, where a scene of impressive carnage met his eyes.

Perched atop the northern gatehouse, he watched as treemen traded booming blows with bestial giants, and braying gor-bands hewed at shrieking dryads with crude axes. Whistling arrow volleys raced across the red skies, thudding into horned skulls and twisted bodies. The elves and their allies were surrounded on all sides by a seething ocean of madness. Beastmen, blood-cultists and daemons all were in evidence, and no matter how many fell, more took their place. As Vlad watched, one howling berserker cut through his own bestial allies to reach the elves, only to be smashed aside by a treeman a moment later.

He saw Alarielle at the battle’s heart, jade life-magic flowing from her hands, healing wounds and restoring her fallen warriors to fight anew. Even so, it was plain enough to Vlad that Alarielle was growing weaker. She was pale and drawn, and her limbs trembled with fatigue… or perhaps pain. He suspected that she would have fallen long since, had the ancient creature fighting at her side not supported her. The vampire recognised Durthu easily enough – the treeman was hard to forget. The indomitable creature stood like a breakwater against the forces which lapped about them, and his mighty fists and gleaming sword brought death to any who sought to harm the Everqueen.

Vlad had commanded enough armies in his time to recognise when one was doomed. Alarielle’s forces were being steadily ground down, and even his power was not so great as to turn the tide. An army was required, and he was but one man. He sank to his haunches and watched. He could not save them, and he had no intention of dying with them, but even so, he could not make himself depart. Alarielle fought on, despite her weakness, and Vlad could not help but be enthralled.

It might be possible, he thought, to save her. Her warriors were doomed, but if he were fast enough, he might be able to extricate her from the slaughter. She would not thank him for it, he suspected, but the other Incarnates certainly would. He readied himself to lunge into the fray, but before he could so much as twitch, the air was split by the roar of cannons and the entire eastern wall of the Middenplatz blew apart. Chunks of jagged stone flew across the square, pulverising beastmen and blood-cultists in their dozens.

Vlad was nearly knocked from his perch by the force of the explosion. As he regained his balance, he heard the crack of gunfire. Bullets punched through the spiralling dust and gromril armour gleamed in the smoke. Dour and dolorous voices erupted into song, and the sound of heavy boots on the march filled the air.

Alarielle and her forces had needed an army, and it seemed an army had come. Vlad smiled as he recognised Gelt, standing tall among the runic banners of the Zhufbarak. Hammerson was with him, looking none the worse for wear. That they both had survived was a surprise, but a pleasant one. Vlad drew his sword and readied himself to join the fray as, with a great shout, the armoured ranks of the dwarfs started forwards, and battle was joined.

The Sudgarten

Wendel Volker threw back his head and howled. His sword flashed, cutting down a skaven in mid-leap, and he led his followers forwards. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he caught glimpses of what had befallen Middenheim in his absence. The air stank of ash and ruin, and rage warred with sorrow in him as he led his motley band of priests, flagellants, foresters and knights into the heart of the skaven horde to avenge the city he had fought for and failed.

Teclis had brought them back, somehow. The last Volker recalled, he and his men had been hurrying towards the King’s Glade, to lend aid to the embattled Incarnates. Now they fought through the tangled streets of the Sudgarten, against ratmen rather than daemons. He and his men loped in the wake of the Emperor and those knights who still had horses to call their own – banners bearing the emblems of the Reiksguard, the Knights Griffon and the Knights of the Twin-Tailed Comet rose above the wedge of armour and horseflesh that charged into the teeth of the jezzail-fire. Clouds of gun smoke rolled across the street, momentarily obscuring the enemy battle-line. A bullet plucked a howling flagellant off his feet and knocked him sprawling. Volker felt a shot whizz past his cheek, but didn’t slow.

He longed to lose himself in battle, to join the ghosts he saw swirling about him everywhere he looked. Goetz, Dubnitz, Martak and others, including faces he had not seen since the fall of Heldenhame, like the brutal Kross or old Father Odkrier. They watched him from the windows and doorways, from behind the enemy ranks and just out of the corner of his eye. They coalesced in the smoke, and their faces rose through the blood that trickled between the cobbles. They spoke to him, but he could not hear them. Ulric’s snarls drowned them out.

The fury of the wolf-god burned in his breast, driving him on through the stinking powder smoke despite his fatigue. Gregor Martak’s parting gift had been less a blessing than a curse. Volker had not slept since he’d escaped Middenheim the first time, leading those survivors he could to the dubious safety of Averheim, thanks to the godspark nestled within him. Most of those he’d saved were now dead, so perhaps it hadn’t mattered either way.

He felt his bones shudder in their envelope of flesh, and knew Ulric was lending him strength. He pivoted as the god growled a warning, and caught the crashing blow of a rat ogre on his shield. The force of the impact drove him to one knee. A burst of light blinded him as he readied himself for a second blow. He heard the rat ogre shriek, and saw it turn and rear back, pawing at its eyes, as a golden, glowing shape rose up before it. A blade flashed, and the creature toppled like a felled tree.

The elf, Tyrion, galloped past, shining like the sun, and behind him came the knights of the elves, moving more quietly, but no less swiftly, than their human allies. The elves had appeared near the western gatehouse of Middenheim alongside the Emperor and his followers. Now they fought side by side, as they had centuries past, against the forces of another Everchosen. Volker rose to his feet and turned, Ulric muttering in his head. He cannot be trusted, the wolf-god snarled. He is the thief’s brother!

‘Shut up,’ Volker hissed. A crude spear dug for his vitals and he smashed it down with the bottom of his shield, before driving his sword into the throat of the skaven who held it. He drove forwards, forcing skaven aside with his shield, and cutting down those who would not be moved. Around him, men and elves moved up, whether on horseback or on foot, and the skaven steadily retreated, falling back through crossroads and squares.

You dare? I am Ulric!

‘You’re bloody annoying is what you are,’ he muttered. The god had been in his head since Martak had given him up, and he hadn’t shut up since. Sometimes, Ulric talked so much that Volker had trouble telling which thoughts were his, and which belonged to the wolf-god. Every day, there was a little less of the man he had been, and a little more of the thing Ulric was turning him into. The wolf-god had eaten him hollow.

He heard the scream of the Emperor’s griffon and saw the beast swoop low over the melee, scooping up skaven in its talons as it went. It dashed the unlucky ratmen against the cobbles as it banked and turned. The Emperor clung to the beast’s back and swung his runefang out, lopping off limbs and crushing skulls.

He is tiring, Ulric rumbled. He is but a man, with a man’s frailties. Volker felt a moment of panic, and muttered, ‘Is that what you were waiting on, then? To jump from me to him, the way you left Martak?’ He knew, without knowing how, that if that occurred, he would die not long after. Part of him was even looking forward to it.

I did not leave Martak. I died with him. As I will die with you, Wendel Volker. I have split myself again and again, until I am but a sliver of the god-that-was, all to survive, to reach this moment, when I might sink my fangs into the flesh of the one who took my city – my people – from me. I am Ulric, the god of battle, wolves and winter, and I will have my vengeance!

‘For all you know, Teclis is dead,’ Volker growled. He hacked down on an armoured stormvermin, knocking the black-furred skaven off its feet. It lashed out at him with a heavy, serrated blade. He felt the tip scrape across his cuirass, and dodged back. Before the skaven could get to its feet, his sword hammered down to split its skull. ‘And if he’s not, we might need him,’ he added, desperately.

I will have vengeance, Wendel Volker. Whether the world lives or dies, Middenheim will be avenged. You will be avenged, Ulric growled.

Then his head ached with the mournful cry of innumerable wolves, and he threw back his head and howled again and again, as he fought on. And as he fought, Wendel Volker’s tears turned to ice on his cheeks.

The Merchant District

‘Waaagh!’

Orcs spilled through the streets like a green tide of violence, and unprepared northmen and panicked skaven drowned beneath them. They hacked, thumped and head-butted their way through the ruins of Middenheim’s merchant district and with every foe who was pulled down by the brawling horde, be they armoured Chaos warrior or skittering skaven jezzail team, the war cry only grew louder. It was a deep, feral rumble that rose and spread ahead of the onslaught, louder even than the sounds of battle.

‘Waaagh!’

Crude blades smashed down through iron shields and crumpled steel helms as the orcs hacked at their foes with a wild abandon, inflamed by a force beyond their comprehension. They chopped at the enemy until their blades blunted and broke, and then continued to pummel their foes with bloody fists.

The greenskin warlord fought at the head of the horde, his axe spinning like a bloody whirlwind about him as he bellowed challenge after challenge. Massive, broken-toothed and clad in battered armour, where Grimgor Ironhide went, the enemy shield-walls split and Chaos champions died, the names of their gods still on their lips. Monstrous beasts, strong with the stuff of Chaos, fell dismembered, and their remains were trodden into pulp as the horde rampaged on through the streets, tireless and relentless.

Grimgor caught a northman by his bone-bedecked beard, and yanked the unlucky man forwards. Their skulls met with a resounding crack and the northman slumped back, his skull cracked open like an egg. Grimgor licked blood and brains from his lips as he shoved the body aside and drove his axe down on an upraised shield covered in writhing, shrieking colours. He split the shield, releasing a wailing prismatic spray, and reached through the ruins to grip the throat of its bearer. ‘Get over ’ere,’ he growled. He flung the brawny warrior into the air, and roared, ‘Lads, catch!’

Behind him, his Immortulz cheered as they hacked at the fallen human, painting themselves with his blood and howling with laughter at his screams. Ahead of Grimgor, the humans were falling back, retreating through the close-set streets, keeping their shields between themselves and the orcs. He’d fought them long enough now that he knew what they were planning. The horse ’umies, on the plains, would scatter and reform – it was like trying to bash rain. But these were the iron ’umies… They’d fall back and form a shield-wall, and wait for their bosses to send for reinforcements. He knew from experience that iron ’umies could hold out for a long time. If they didn’t want to move, they didn’t.

For some reason, that wasn’t as pleasant a thought as it might normally have been. He felt an itch, just to the left of his skull, and knew Gork wanted him to keep moving. Go fasta, the god growled, fastafastaFASTA!

Grimgor threw back his head and bellowed in frustration as Gork’s words cascaded across his brain. Why couldn’t the ’umies just take a kicking? They had to know that they couldn’t get away from him, or resist him. They were worse than the bull-stunties, with their armour and fire and whips.

A grin split Grimgor’s grotesque features as he recalled how the stunties had wailed as he’d torn down their city of pillars and pits, freed their slaves and toppled their statues. That’d teach them to break their staves on his hide. That’d teach them to try to make Grimgor a slave. The grin faded, and the old anger came back, hotter and fiercer than any stunty fire-pit. He lifted Gitsnik and pressed the flat of the great axe to his brow. His gnarled frame was a patchwork of scars, most earned properly, in the heat of battle. He’d fought stunties – both kinds – and rats and gits and big-bellies aplenty in the past few months, but it had always come back to the bull-stunties and their fire-pits. Their whips and chains and iron staves.

They had given him his first scars when he’d been no more than a runt. And he owed them for that.

Gork had shown him favour, filling him with strength enough to kick over the stunties’ towers and turn their ziggurat of black obsidian into rubble. But first, he’d broken skulls and taken heads and put together the biggest Waaagh! around – orcs, goblins, even ogres. After Gork had blessed him with his strength, he had crushed Greasus Goldtooth’s skull with the ogre’s own mace. In the years that followed, he had broken the back of the Necksnapper and shatte­red the lodgepoles of the Hobgobla Khan. He had cracked the Great Bastion, and burned the dragon-fleets of Nippon. The East was green, and it was his. But it hadn’t been enough. Something was pulling him west. Gork, maybe, or Mork, drawing him towards a bigger fight. A better fight. He could feel it in his veins, thrumming along, like that time Gitsnik had got hit by a lightning bolt.

He’d thought, at the time, he’d found that fight in the city of the bull-stunties, but the gods hadn’t even let him enjoy the krumpin’ he’d given them before they’d scooped him up, and all his boys with him, and deposited him into the middle of a fight. A big fight, bigger than any he had ever seen. There were ’umies, rats, stunties, point-ears, and bone-men – every flavour of opponent. For a moment, Grimgor thought he’d died and gone to Gork’s hall, but then he’d got an arrow in the head and realised that they were in a human city. He reached up to scratch the wound. The arrow had got dislodged somewhere along the way, and the wound had already scabbed over. Gork clamoured in his head and Grimgor shook his head in irritation.

He lowered his axe and eyeballed the northmen. He grunted and turned. Gork wanted him to get to the heart of the city, and fast, and Grimgor wasn’t of a mind to argue with the gods… not yet anyway. This situation called for a bit of… Morkishness. ‘Oi, Wurrzag!’ he bellowed, punching his Immortulz aside to clear a path. ‘Get up here, ya git.’ He knew the crazed shaman would be close. Wurrzag was never very far away these days, not since Gork had reached down and given Grimgor a flick on the noggin.

Orcs and ogres made way for a capering, tattooed figure, wrapped in badly stitched hides and wearing a wooden mask decorated with feathers. Wurrzag wobbled to a halt before Grimgor, twitching in time to some internal rhythm. Grimgor grimaced. The air around the shaman sparked and crackled with energy that made an orc’s blood fizz and his flesh itch. Wurrzag shook his staff under Grimgor’s nose. ‘All hail da once and future git,’ the shaman warbled. The shaman hesitated in mid-hop. ‘Werl, one o’ dem, anyways.’

‘Yeah, shut up wiv’ that nonsense and go do that fing you do, right?’ Grimgor snarled, gesturing towards the enemy with his axe. He wanted to plant Gitsnik right in the middle of the shaman’s stupid mask on general principles, but Wurrzag was too valuable. ‘They is in my way, and I want ’em gone. Gork wants me somewheres else, and I intend to go there. But that ain’t here, so go blast ’em.’

‘Yes, oh mighty git,’ Wurrzag squawked, shaking his staff.

‘And stop calling me a git,’ Grimgor roared, as the shaman twitched past him. He turned and raised his axe. ‘Golgfag, get over ’ere,’ he snarled, as he caught the ogre’s attention. Golgfag muscled aside a couple of orcs, and only had to thump one of them. They were scared of the ogre, and Grimgor didn’t like that. The only thing his lads ought to be scared of was him. ‘Get your lads up here,’ he bellowed at the ogre. ‘Me and you are breaking that shield-wall. You got a problem with that?’ He glared at the ogre challengingly. Golgfag and his ogres had joined the Waaagh! as it crossed the Worlds Edge Mountains, and he’d come close to killing the mercenary more than once. Every time, Gork had whispered to him and quelled his anger.

The big ogre had proven more useful than most of his greedy kin – he was as smart as any runt, and dead sneaky when he needed to be. It had been Golgfag who had got the gates of Zharr Naggrund open, so Grimgor’s lads could barrel in. The ogre had held the great iron gates open, despite having half a dozen stunty crossbow bolts in him. He and Grimgor had fought side by side and back to back up the steps of the black ziggurat, and had toppled the massive statue of the stunties’ bull-god, alongside Borgut Facebeater and Wurrzag. That had been a good day, even if he’d had to kill ol’ Borgut later, on account of him trying to make himself boss. He missed Borgut. Not at the moment, but in general.

‘Got no problems, boss,’ Golgfag rumbled. He wore a heavy horned helm that added to his already considerable height, and for an instant, Grimgor considered cutting him off at the knees. He didn’t like standing in the ogre’s shadow. ‘Happy to bash whoever, wherever, whenever.’

‘Good,’ Grimgor grunted. He heard the air sizzle behind him, and felt his skin prickle. The light turned green, and cast weird shadows on the buildings around them. All around him, orcs, ogres and goblins set up a caterwauling and men screamed. He turned to see Wurrzag dancing a madcap jig as the shield-wall crumbled beneath a storm of crackling emerald lightning. Grimgor felt the strength of Gork rising in him, an elemental fury that outstripped even his own boiling anger. He grinned and Golgfag stepped back warily.

‘Let’s get to bashing then,’ Grimgor snarled. He lifted his axe and waved his Immortulz forwards. Golgfag roared out for his followers, and the mingled wedge of black orcs and ogres took the fore as they thundered towards the enemy lines that Wurrzag had softened up. Grimgor sped up, wanting to get the first lick in. He caught Gitsnik in both hands and lifted it. ‘I’m gonna stomp you ta dust, and break your bones,’ he roared, hurling his words towards the faltering shield-wall. ‘I’m gonna pile yer bodies in a big fire and cook ’em good! I’m gonna bash heads, break ya faces and jump up and down on the bits that are left!’

And when I get where Gork wants me ta go, I’m gonna get really mean, he thought in satisfaction. Then, he was upon the enemy, and there was no need to think at all.