CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Wynd

Malekith cursed as the eastern flank of his forces began to buckle beneath the weight of the orc assault. The ruins shook with savage cries as the greenskins barrelled through the thinning ranks of the fleeing skaven and crashed into the elves. The elves fought with all of the discipline and fury of their race, but they could not match the pure, bestial ferocity of the newcomers. He tugged on Seraphon’s reins, drawing the dragon through the air towards the collapsing lines. Below him, elves on horseback galloped to bolster the flagging flank.

He couldn’t say where the greenskins had come from, nor did he particularly care. That they were here now and attacking his forces was all that was important. It had all been going so well. The skaven had been driven before them, fleeing like the rodents they were. But even as the elves had pressed forwards, the orcs had been lured onto a collision course with Malekith’s forces. He could see the cunning pattern now – the ratkin had ever been willing to sacrifice thousands of their own kind in order to secure a minor victory. He cursed himself for not being more wary. Now he had a more persistent foe to contend with, and he knew, though he could not see them through the fog of war, that the skaven were likely regrouping. They would not have led both armies here, if they did not have some–

The thud of jezzail shots and the crackle of warp-lightning cannons interrupted his thoughts, and confirmed his suspicions. Seraphon caught an updraught and reared to hover in the air as, below, jezzail-shot thudded into the melee, gouging bloody trails of dead and wounded through the press of battle. Poisoned wind mortar shells burst open along his lines, claiming the lives of many elves, including the fierce corsairs of the Krakensides.

Of course, he thought. Why draw one foe into a trap, when you can draw two? Cunning vermin. Malekith snarled in frustration and jabbed his spurs into Seraphon’s scales, urging the dragon on.

With a shriek, the great beast undulated through the air, eastwards, in search of the hidden skaven positions. Malekith hunkered low in his saddle as green lightning arced from a crumbled second-storey archway, and at his command, Seraphon tucked its wings and plummeted towards the ruins like a diving falcon. The black dragon smashed into the ruins hard enough to shower the streets below with debris, and its head snaked forwards, jaws agape. Thick, black smoke spewed from its maw, and filled the ruin. Dying skaven staggered into view, collapsing even as they tried vainly to escape the noxious poison.

Malekith summoned flames of shadow and sent them roaring into the depths of the ruin, searing those skaven whom Seraphon’s breath had not reached. He laughed as the vermin burned, and longed to do the same to the whole city. Let it all burn, and be lost to darkness, so that the enemy might know the futility of standing against the Eternity King.

He heard a squeal from above him, and twisted in his saddle. Shapes dropped towards him from the upper reaches of the ruin, wielding curved blades that glistened with poison. Even as he raised his blade, he knew that he would not be able to stop every blow.

Something flashed in the dark, and spun past him. Several of the assassins went limp, like puppets with their strings cut, and smashed into the ground below. The remaining skaven landed on Seraphon’s back and leapt towards him, only to die with his sword in its skull. As he swept the twitching carcass away from him, he turned to see a dwarf axe embedded in the stonework nearby. Whoever had thrown it had done so with consummate skill, killing two assassins in mid-air with a single throw.

‘You never were any good at watching your back, were you?’ a rough voice rumbled, from somewhere nearby. Malekith froze. He recognised the voice, though he had not heard it in millennia. Not since those dim, distant days before elf and dwarf had discarded all oaths of friendship, and gone to war. ‘Just as well I was passing through.’ He caught a glimpse of gleaming armour and a flash of white beard, and felt his heart lurch in memory of a pain he’d thought long forgotten.

‘Snorri,’ Malekith whispered. ‘My friend – I…’

But the speaker, whoever they had been, was gone. He turned and saw that the axe was gone as well, as if it had never been. Malekith shook his head. He knew the legends, and had heard the stories from the lips of slaves and captives, but he had never believed… not until now. He smiled. Go in peace, my friend, and meet your doom as is fitting.

Even as the eastern knot of skaven guns fell silent, so too did those situated to the south. Malekith pushed aside old memories and regrets as he peered into the darkness and glimpsed the glint of golden murder-masks there – the Chaindancers had found new prey. Malekith’s smile turned cruel as he heard the screams of the ratkin, and silently wished the sisters of slaughter luck in their hunt. ‘Such hubris these vermin display, to believe that we are prey, eh, Seraphon?’ he murmured, as he gave the dragon’s reins a tug. The beast flung itself back into the air, wings pumping.

As he passed over the heaving sprawl of battle, a dull ache began to grow in his skull. It was a familiar sensation – the tug of strong magics, of the great winds of the Vortex striving against one another. He felt it most strongly when another Incarnate was close by. He peered down, and saw a war-hydra fall, its coils split by the bite of a crude axe. A burly figure bounded through the writhing death-spasms of the beast, and crashed into the close-packed ranks of the Phoenix Guard. Amber energy sparked and snarled around the orc, as if the creature were the eye of a storm.

‘The eighth wind,’ Malekith hissed. And bound to the body of a brute at that. Suddenly, the presence of the orcs made sense – this was Teclis’s fault. Much like everything else, he thought sourly. And like everything else, it is up to me to see to the rectification of this colossal blunder. The orcs were uncontrollable, and filled with the power of Ghur. They would ruin whatever slight chance of victory the Incarnates possessed.

‘No, best to let the Wind of Beasts seek out a more fitting host,’ he said, as he urged Seraphon into another dive. ‘Once we have freed it from its current shoddy shell, of course.’ The dragon roared, as if in reply, and dived down towards the orc warlord.

Improbably, the brute ducked beneath Seraphon’s grasping talons. Malekith cursed as the dragon turned, jaws wide. The orc whirled and charged towards them, axe raised. The dragon spewed poison smoke, but the orc plunged through it heedlessly. Malekith blinked in shock, as the orc suddenly bounded from the cloud of poison and crashed down onto Seraphon’s spined skull. Before the dragon could do more than issue a startled snarl, the orc was scrambling up Seraphon’s ridged neck, towards the Eternity King.

The orc was even more monstrous up close, Malekith thought, even as he drew his blade to block a blow from that lethal axe. One eye blazed fiercely from a green, scowling face pitted with scars. The black armour was tarnished and piecemeal, but sturdy, and the orc’s arms bulged with thick knots of muscle. There was a flare of light as their blades met, and Malekith grunted in pain as the force of the blow jarred his arm. The orc was strong; far stronger than he’d assumed. ‘Grimgor is gonna gut ya,’ the orc snarled, spraying spittle all over Malekith. ‘Gonna rip out yer spine and beat ya to death wit’ it. Gonna squish yer heart like it were a squig, and suck it dry!’

‘You’ll do nothing except scream, brute,’ the Eternity King hissed. Malekith’s hand snapped out, the clawed tips of his gauntlet sinking into the orc’s arm, eliciting a bellow of pain. The orc rocked and his broad skull slammed into the faceplate of Malekith’s helm, almost buckling it. Nearly jarred from his saddle, and dazed by the blow, Malekith slumped back, releasing his hold on the orc. The creature grinned and hefted his axe for a killing blow, but a sudden undulation from Seraphon as the dragon launched itself back into the air sent the brute tumbling away, back to the street below.

Before Malekith could attempt to spot where his foe had landed, a great chittering shriek rose from the north, and he turned to see a host of armoured skaven ploughing through the ruins of a burnt-out guildhouse, straight towards his already embattled forces. ‘No,’ he spat. ‘No more of this foolishness.’ Even as he spoke, however, the sound of more orcs arriving reached him. Hundreds of orcs were spilling through the rubble of storehouses and shops, an unyielding wave of green violence, seeking to sweep his embattled forces from the field. Giants and ogres lumbered amongst them, and squealing, snorting boar riders careened through the streets ahead of the rest.

His host was caught in the jaws of a trap, and there would be no escape. Not through force at any rate. His elves were too few, and even his own power, great as it was, could not prevail over so many enemies. Is this it, then? Is this my fate – our fate? To be drowned in violence by uncomprehending savages or cowardly vermin? Am I to preside over ignominious defeat? Is that to be my legacy? he wondered, as his heart sank and his warriors died.

No. No, this was not his fate. He had struggled too hard, fought too long to give it all up now due to the error of another. He was Malekith. He was supreme. He had survived the Flame of Asuryan not once but twice, and forged two nations in his lifetime. He had beaten daemons, and matched his will to that of the Dark Gods themselves and emerged whole and triumphant.

But there had ever been one common element to his victories. One foe that had to be defeated first, in every case. Pride, damnable pride. It was pride that drove him; he knew it and accepted it. It was pride that lent him strength, and pride too which had endangered his every plan and scheme. Pride told him that he needed no aid; pride murmured that he could find a more fitting host for the Winds of Death and Beasts; pride demanded that he fight to the last, against those he deemed inferior.

And it was with a single twist of his limbs that Malekith dashed pride to the ground, and dropped from Seraphon’s saddle. He landed lightly, despite the weight of his armour, borne to the street by coiling shadows. The orc still lived, and was hacking his way through the Phoenix Guard with a single-minded determination that put Malekith in mind of Tyrion. Brutes of a feather, he thought, as he strode towards his opponent.

The orc roared as he caught sight of Malekith. Several of his followers made as if to charge the Eternity King, but the orc cut them down without hesitation. Malekith smiled. The beast would allow no other to claim his victory. Pride is not the sole province of Asuryan’s children, he thought as he drew close to the rampaging orc. Amber light sparked and snarled about the orc warlord, illuminating him with a pale glow.

Well, now to see whether I am right… or dead, Malekith mused, as he swiftly sank down to one knee, bowed his head, and extended his sword hilt-first towards his opponent. ‘I yield,’ he said, loudly.

The orc, axe raised over his blunt skull, blinked. Malekith said, ‘I yield, in my name, and in that of the elven race. We are your servants.’

The orc hesitated for a moment. Then a slow, cruel snarl of triumph spread across his features. The orc raised his axe and turned towards his brawling followers. ‘Grimgor is da best!’ he bellowed. He pounded his chest with a closed fist, and his followers added their voices to his victorious roar.

‘No,’ Malekith said.

The orc whirled about. ‘What?’ the brute growled.

Malekith matched the beast’s gimlet stare with one of his own. ‘I – we came to this city to defeat one who claims that title for himself.’ He flung a hand out to indicate the skaven. ‘They serve him, as do the northmen. They say he is the best, the strongest warrior in the world. So strong that he intends to crack it, and drown what’s left in fire.’ Malekith inclined his head. ‘How can Grimgor be the best, if Archaon kills the world?’

‘Archaon,’ Grimgor rumbled, drawing the Everchosen’s name out like a curse. Amber sparks danced in the brute’s good eye. The beast turned north, towards the Temple of Ulric. ‘Archaon… thinks he’s better than me?’

‘I doubt that he thinks of you at all,’ Malekith said.

‘Take me to him,’ Grimgor snarled, shoving the flat of his axe beneath Malekith’s chin. ‘I’m gonna bash ’im, and then I’m gonna stomp ’im, and then we’ll see who’s best.’

‘It would be my pleasure,’ Malekith murmured, rising to his feet. Grimgor snorted and turned. At a single bellow, his orcs began to flow around the elves, and towards the skaven. Malekith could almost admire the iron control the beast had over his simple-minded followers. But he still intended to plant his sword between the brute’s shoulder blades once the day was won. He’d sacrificed his pride on the altar of necessity, but that didn’t mean that matters between them were resolved.

I hope you survive what’s coming, beast. If only so you can witness my supremacy first-hand, when your services are no longer required…

The Great Park

Arkhan the Black pinned the northman to the ground with a sweep of his staff, and watched disinterestedly as the savage convulsed and withered to a lifeless husk. It joined the others that surrounded him in an ever expanding ring of death, and he paid the body no more notice. It wasn’t even worth raising to fight anew.

From around him rose the clangour of battle, as barrow-blade crashed against ensorcelled steel in a monotonous rhythm. Nearby, the wights of the Doomed Legion fought against the black-armoured reavers of the Wastes, both sides trampling the bodies of Kurgan and northmen beneath their heavy treads. With a gesture, Arkhan re-knit broken bones and rebound wicked spirits to their mouldering bodies, dragging those wights who had fallen back to their feet to rejoin the fight.

The sky had gone from red to black, and squirmed like a carcass full of maggots. The few remaining trees in the Great Park had been set alight by witch-fires as the battle surged back and forth. The living had been joined by a cavalcade of daemons – graceful, dancing shapes which moved with impossible quickness across the field. One such bounded towards Arkhan, her lilting song playing across the grave-whisper of his thoughts. Faces flashed in his mind’s eye – Morgiana, Neferata, others, women he had loved and lost in his sorry life – but he ignored them easily enough. His will was not his own, and could not be broken so lightly. The vast, black bulwark of Nagash’s thoughts steadied his own, and he interposed his staff as the daemonette’s claws snapped shut inches from his skull.

The daemon hissed at him and he twisted to the side, throwing the androgynous creature to the ground. Before it could rise, he had drawn his barrow-blade and severed its head from its neck. He turned, blade still in hand, and scanned the park. Wailing spirits hurtled through the ashen air to the south, ripping the life from Kurgan warriors, even as the latter fought on beneath their skull-topped banners against a lurching, fire-blistered horde of zombies. He heard a rasping roar, and turned to see Krell’s axe crash down on the mirrored shield of a creature he recognised as Sigvald the Magnificent. Arkhan had only crossed paths with the Geld-Prince once before, in Araby, but he knew that the Chaos champion was a deadly opponent, despite being a preening brat.

Arkhan extended his staff, unleashing a crackling amethyst hurricane of death-magics at the daemonettes who capered past Sigvald and Krell, unbinding them and reducing them to motes of glittering dust. Through the cloud, he saw Sigvald driven back by Krell’s whirling blows, each of which bled seamlessly into the next.

Again and again, Sigvald lunged at Krell, his flickering blade skittering across Krell’s ancient armour, but the wight gave no ground, and continued to drive his opponent before him. Krell launched a wide blow, meant to decapitate Sigvald, but the Geld-Prince ducked beneath it. The blow shattered the scorched husk of a tree, showering both warriors with cinders and ash. Sigvald lunged, and his sword punched through Krell’s breastplate with a screech of metal and a puff of dust.

Krell staggered back, a dry, death-rattle laugh echoing from his fleshless jaws. He pivoted, wrenching the sword from Sigvald’s grip, and backhanded him, sending the Chaos champion flying backwards. Arkhan nodded in satisfaction. All was as it should be.

Suddenly, a throaty roar split the cacophony of battle. Arkhan looked towards the overlook of the park and saw a vast, lumpen silhouette clamber over the hill. A tattered red cloak flapped about the beast’s shoulders, and a tarnished crown pulsed strangely on its brow. Arkhan raised his staff warily. This creature too he recognised, though he had never before laid eyes on it. Arkhan had heard the stories from his agents in the north, of Throgg and his ice-palace in the ruins of Praag. Of the capture of sorcerers and mages of all races and descriptions; of Throgg’s obsessions, and his fall at the hands of a one-eyed dwarf. It seems that fall was not so long as one might hope, Arkhan thought.

For now, it seemed as if the Wintertooth, the so-called King of the Trolls, had come to Middenheim, and he had not come alone. Trolls, giants and mutants of the northlands flooded down the overlook, smashing into both the dead and the living without regard to whether they were friend or foe. Feral minotaurs slaughtered Kurgan warriors as the ghorgons of the Drakwald tore through the massed ranks of zombies.

Arkhan wove spells of strength and recovery with all the speed his dead limbs could muster, trying to hold the army of corpses together. He could feel Nagash’s displeasure ripple through him, and with a twitch of his staff he summoned the surviving morghasts from the angry skies. The osseous constructs hurtled down like birds of prey, their spirit-bound blades chopping into bestial flesh. But for every dozen brutes and beasts that fell, a morghast was pulled down from the sky, to be hacked apart or torn limb from limb.

Though it took almost every iota of concentration he could muster to reform the destroyed constructs and fling them into battle once more, Arkhan kept one eye on the duel between Krell and Sigvald. If the wight could manage to dispatch the champion, it might tear all heart from the surviving Kurgan and put them to flight. With them out of the way, the beasts would be easy prey. Or so he hoped.

That hope, however, proved to be in vain. Arkhan watched, disconcerted, as Sigvald lunged to retrieve his sword, still stuck in Krell’s chest, and Krell’s axe whistled down to shatter the mirror-shield the man held. Sigvald staggered back, sword in hand, face bloody. The axe had bifurcated the shield and gashed the Geld-Prince’s handsome features, reducing one side of his face to a ruin. Sigvald clapped a hand to his mangled flesh and wailed like a dying cat. The champion lunged, still shrieking, and launched blow after blow at Krell.

Krell staggered back beneath the rain of wild blows. His axe lashed out in reply, scarring Sigvald’s gleaming cuirass or scoring his flesh, but the Geld-Prince was too far gone to feel the blows, Arkhan realised. The two warriors whirled and clashed through the melee, smashing down any creature, living, dead or otherwise, unlucky enough to get between them. Arkhan considered lending Krell aid, but dismissed the idea even as it occurred to him. He had his own battle to fight – a roaring giant stretched a wide hand towards him, as if to scoop him up. Arkhan ducked under the grasping fingers and lashed out with his sword, slicing through the creature’s wrist. The giant howled and retracted its limb, as Arkhan thrust his staff out and spat a killing word. The great beast staggered as its mighty frame began to shrivel and sag. It turned to dust even as it fell.

Arkhan heard a crash and spun. Sigvald, broken sword in hand, had borne Krell to the ground. One of the wight’s arms was missing, and as Arkhan watched, Sigvald braced his knee against the other, pinning Krell. The champion was howling unintelligibly as he battered at the wight with his broken sword and bleeding fists. Krell’s armour crumpled beneath the maddened Geld-Prince’s blows, and Arkhan could feel the wight’s spirit slipping loose from its husk. He took a step towards them, but found his path blocked by a massive shape.

Throgg roared and smashed his club down, narrowly missing Arkhan. The troll-king wrenched his weapon up, scattering cobblestones, and swung it again. Arkhan twisted aside and hacked a bloody trench in the troll’s side. Throgg staggered, clapping a hand to the steaming wound. His club found Arkhan’s hip, pulverising the bone. Arkhan stumbled, and it was only thanks to his staff that he stayed upright. He dragged himself out of reach as his bones re-knit, but Throgg didn’t follow. Instead, the troll seemed captivated by Sigvald and Krell’s confrontation.

Arkhan shuddered as he heard the fading scream of Krell’s ancient, black soul, and he glanced over his shoulder. Sigvald sat back on his heels, panting and bloody-faced, staring blindly down at the shattered remains of Krell. The Geld-Prince threw back his head and screamed, though whether in triumph or in mourning for his ruined features, Arkhan couldn’t say. Regardless, the scream was cut short a moment later by Throgg, who split Sigvald’s head open with his club, dashing his brains across Krell’s carcass.

Throgg turned, a smile on his grotesque features. ‘He was a fool, and a wastrel,’ the troll rumbled. Arkhan was startled by the troll’s voice. It was not that of a beast, but of a man. A man in agony. For a brief moment, Arkhan felt a strange kinship with the creature – they were both but pawns in the designs of others, their own hopes and dreams but sparks lost in the grand conflagrations of those they served.

‘And you are neither, I suppose,’ Arkhan rasped.

‘No. The gods sent me here to die on your sword, so that my body might tangle your feet and delay you,’ Throgg said. He looked around. More bellowing creatures – monsters of all shapes and sizes – spilled down from the overlook with every passing moment. What was left of the Doomed Legion was already being swept away, and only the southern stretch of the Great Park was still firmly in the hands of the dead. The battle was going badly, Arkhan knew. He could feel Nagash’s growing frustration, and the heavy tread of his approach.

‘A TASK FOR WHICH YOU AND YOUR HORDE ARE SINGULARLY WELL SUITED, APE,’ Nagash said, as he stepped over the burning carcass of a chimera. Blood stained his robes and armour, but the nine books still thrashed and snapped at the ends of their chains, and his captive spirits still wailed. ‘BUT I HAVE NO TIME FOR SUCH DISTRACTIONS. I HAVE GODS TO SLAY.’

Throgg hefted his club. ‘Make time, carrion-bird,’ he roared. ‘I have been denied an empire, but I will not be denied victory.’ The troll surged forwards, brushing Arkhan aside as if the liche were no more substantial than a spider-web. ‘I will wear your skull as an amulet, and the gods will grant me all that I wish!’

Nagash’s great blade looped around, and chopped through the club. Throgg lurched to the side, off balance, and Nagash’s free hand snapped forwards, talons digging into the troll’s throat. Nagash dragged the troll close. ‘THE GODS GRANT NOTHING YOU DID NOT ALREADY POSSESS, FOOL. THEY ARE LIARS AND THIEVES. I WILL DRAG THEM SCREAMING FROM THEIR NIGHTMARE WOMB AND FLAY THEIR SECRETS FROM THEM. SERVE ME, AND I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THAT YOU MIGHT DESIRE.’

Throgg pounded uselessly on Nagash’s arm, trying to break his grip. The troll glared at Nagash. ‘Better death,’ he snarled, in his almost-human voice. ‘Better death than service to such as you. The gods might raise us up, or dash us down, but there is a chance there, at least. There is no hope, not in you.’

‘AS YOU WISH,’ Nagash intoned. His great blade, death-energy writhing along its length, plunged down, through the troll’s thick shoulder and into his torso. Throgg screamed and sank down, clawing at Nagash’s robes. The Undying King held the sword in place, and the magics in that fell blade did their work, chewing through the troll’s mutated body like acid. Throgg collapsed slowly, falling in on himself, until there remained only a pile of char and ash, and a tarnished crown, which rolled slowly away across the cobbles to fall flat at Arkhan’s feet.

‘And thus do the unworthy fall,’ a voice as dry as the desert sands rasped. Arkhan looked up from the crown, and turned. A familiar form, ancient bones shrouded in tattered ceremonial wrappings and broken armour, stepped towards them, khopesh in hand. ‘Will you join him in oblivion, Usurper?’

‘SETTRA,’ Nagash said.

‘I have walked across half of this world to find you, Usurper. You broke me and scattered me, but Settra is deathless. Settra is eternal. And so Settra returned, and now he stands here, sword in hand, and he denies you, Usurper. He stands between you and triumph,’ Settra croaked. He lifted his khopesh and pointed it at Nagash, who regarded him as if he were less a threat than a curiosity.

‘I DID NOT BRING YOU BACK, LITTLE KING,’ Nagash said.

‘No,’ Settra said. ‘You did not.’ The khopesh dipped. ‘They did. The jackals of the smokeless fire, the howlers in the Wastes. They dared to offer Settra aid.’

‘HOW FOOLISH OF THEM,’ Nagash said.

‘They offered Settra victories, and empires and life unending.’

‘AND WHAT DID THEY ASK IN RETURN, LITTLE KING?’

‘That I serve them and kill you.’ Settra looked down at the remains of Throgg, and then, quicker than Arkhan could follow, lunged. Nagash lurched aside, but Arkhan realised that Settra had not been aiming for the Incarnate of Death. Instead, the ancient king’s blade chopped into the scaly torso of the dragon ogre which had been preparing to smash its enormous axe down on the back of Nagash’s skull. The beast roared in agony, but Settra did not give it time to recover. He tore his blade free and slashed upwards, separating the monster’s head from its shoulders. It toppled over like a felled tree, and Settra turned.

He extended his khopesh towards Nagash. ‘Settra does not serve. Settra rules.’ He strode past them, towards the horde of monsters. ‘Go, prince of Khemri. Settra will forgive your trespasses if you but make the jackals howl. Teach them that the kings of the Great Land cannot be bought and sold like slaves. And then, when it is done, Settra shall take your head, and take back his people.’

As the last words left his mouth, Settra the Imperishable broke into a run, slashing out at a snarling giant even as the great beast reached down for him. His khopesh removed its fingers, and then its lower jaw in rapid succession. A moment later, he was lost to Arkhan’s sight as he plunged into the heart of the battle.

Arkhan looked up at Nagash. The Undying King gazed in the direction Settra had vanished for a moment longer, as if bemused. Then he turned to look down at Arkhan. ‘MY SERVANT,’ he said.

‘What would you have me do, master?’

‘I MUST REACH THE ARTEFACT, OR ALL IS FOR NAUGHT. TAKE TWO HOSTS OF THE MORGHASTS AND HOLD HERE, UNTIL YOUR LAST STRENGTH IS GONE. DO NOT FAIL ME.’

Arkhan didn’t flinch. He had fallen before, as had Krell. It was never the end. No matter how often he wished it were so. Settra’s reappearance was proof enough of that. And Nagash was right. They could not break away from the enemy here. Even though Throgg was dead, and Sigvald too, their foes were too numerous and too far gone in their bloodlust to be so easily shifted, even by one as mighty as Settra. For Nagash to make his escape, someone would have to stay behind and keep the remaining Kurgan and the monstrous horde occupied. And since Krell was no more, that left him. ‘Yes, master. Do you have any further commands?’

Nagash hesitated. And for the first time, Arkhan the Black felt a flicker of hope. He had never known the Great Necromancer to hesitate, even in the face of defeat. It was as if, for the first time in centuries, the Undying King was uncertain of the ultimate outcome. Nagash looked down at him and said, finally, ‘DIE WELL, MY SERVANT.’

Then Nagash stalked south, leaving Arkhan to face the enemy alone. Arkhan turned away, and set his staff. The remnants of Throgg’s army that weren’t currently being occupied by Settra rampaged towards him, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Arkhan tightened his grip on his sword, and thought of a long-forgotten alleyway, where he’d first set his feet on the path to eternal servitude. A path that had, at long last, reached its end.

He thought of the feeling of sand across his cheeks, and the smell of Cathayan spices on a sea breeze. He could taste blood, and the black leaf, and the kisses of a queen. He looked down at his fleshless hand, clasped about the hilt of his sword, and then up, at the crawling sky.

If Arkhan the Black had been capable of smiling, he would have.

The Palast District

‘Fire!’ Gotri Hammerson roared, chopping the air with his axe. The ensuing volley punched through the ranks of the beastmen, dropping many. The rest came on, braying coarse-tongued battle cries as they charged heedlessly into the dwarf shield-wall. ‘Ironbreakers – to the fore!’ Hammerson bellowed, as he signalled for the Thunderers to retreat.

The Ironbreakers, clad in gromril and bearing runic shields, stumped forward, accompanied by Balthasar Gelt, as the dwarf line fell back around them. The Incarnate of Metal planted his staff, and the runes inscribed on the ancient armour of the dwarfs glowed with power. A moment later, the beastmen crashed into them, hacking at flesh and armour with frenzied abandon. The dwarfs held firm, and soon the last of the creatures was slumping into the dust or scattering in flight. Hammerson caught Gelt’s eye, and nodded sharply.

They had come to the aid of the elves, but almost too late. Alarielle’s forces were outnumbered and surrounded by an ever-expanding ring of foes. And unlike the beastmen, these didn’t look as if the thought of dwarf bullets filled them with much dread. Witch elves, howling blood cultists, and daemons swirled about Alarielle’s elves and tree-spirits, and only where Durthu and the remaining treemen fought was the battle not going badly.

Hammerson knew that wasn’t going to last. He could see a massive cauldron-shrine grinding slowly across the plaza towards Alarielle, and perched atop it, the fugitive Blood Queen, Hellebron. The wiry witch elf spat and railed, issuing orders and threats in a voice twisted by madness. She clashed her blades and gesticulated wildly, as if overcome by the same frenzy which possessed her followers. He’d heard that she had fled Athel Loren before the arrival of the refugees from Averheim, and had learned enough about her proclivities to know that she meant Alarielle ill.

‘We must rescue her,’ Gelt said, as he hurried towards Hammerson. His golden mask was dented and tarnished, but his eyes glowed with power. ‘If Alarielle falls, so too will the world,’ he continued. He gestured with his staff towards the cauldron-shrine, as its heavy wheels ground over the broken dead and laughing witch elves came leaping in its wake.

‘Aye,’ Hammerson grunted. ‘I have eyes, lad. I know.’ He raised his axe. ‘Zhufbarak – shield-march,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go give the tree-huggers a hand, lads.’ The Ironbreakers locked shields and started forwards, as the clansmen and Thunderers followed suit. A dwarf throng on the march was akin to one of the Empire’s steam tanks, capable of rolling over almost any enemy. Clansmen on the flanks used their shields to provide cover for the Thunderers, who unleashed volley after volley, reloading as they moved. The Ironbreakers formed the wedge, smashing aside any enemy who sought to stand in the throng’s path. And there were plenty of those. Hammerson and Gelt took the point of the wedge for themselves, unleashing their respective magics on the foe.

Hang on woman, we’re coming, he thought, as he summoned runes of fire and swept aside a shrieking witch elf. Not that I have any clue how to help you, when we get there. Or if you’ll even live that long, with the way you’re looking…

From his few glimpses of her, as she fought in the shadow of Durthu, the Everqueen looked less radiant than cadaverous. It was as if she had aged centuries in moments, and her movements were faltering. Nonetheless, she fought on, her magics reaching out to snare and break the enemy at every turn. Hammerson had no real fondness for the elves, but he knew bravery when he saw it. And he was determined not to let it be in vain.

The Zhufbarak throng advanced at a glacier’s pace, with all the relentless inexorability that implied. Salvoes thundered forth, flinging bodies into the air and throwing the already anarchic ranks of the enemy into complete disarray. The great, coiling war-horns of Zhufbar groaned so loudly as to shake the rubble, and where bullets and steam did not reach, axes and hammers served to split Hellebron’s host in two.

At a gesture from Gelt, golden light danced across the weapons of the dwarfs, awakening the full power of the ancestral runes. Gromril armour flared and shone like the stars that had once shone in the skies above as it was struck by enemy blows. Hammerson raised his axe and gestured east. With his other hand, he motioned west. The dwarf shield-wall split with perfect synchronicity, and two lines of clan warriors turned outwards around a hinge composed of a doughty core of Ironbreakers, one to the east, the other to the west. Hammerson gestured to Gelt. ‘Take the west, lad. I’ll see to the east,’ he growled. ‘Let the enemy break themselves on good dwarf steel. Give the elgi a chance to catch their breath. We’ll collapse the wall when we’ve earned some space, and squeeze the enemy between us, like grist beneath a millstone.’

Hammerson watched Gelt go, and then turned to study the turmoil they had wrought in their wake. He grunted in satisfaction as he saw that their intervention had destroyed any momentum the enemy possessed. They’d cut Hellebron’s forces in two, with the Blood Queen herself caught on the wrong side of the shield-wall and trapped between dwarfs and elves. Then, that didn’t seem to bother her all that much. She was exhorting her followers to greater efforts, ranting and shrieking loudly enough to wake the dead. The elves would have to hold out until the dwarfs could fall back to their position.

Hammerson glanced back at Alarielle. I hope you can handle her, woman, because we’ve got our hands full, he thought. A thunderclap shook the Palast and rattled his teeth in his jaw, and he turned to see the followers of the Blood God slam into the western shield-wall. Axe-blades chopped over shield rims or hooked dwarf legs, and the wall wavered, but only for an instant. Rune-axes carved red, efficient arcs through the packed ranks of the enemy, as the Zhufbarak gave their foes their fill and more of skulls and blood.

‘Hold them, lad,’ Hammerson growled. He looked around at his warriors, as they strained against the enemy. ‘And you, you great wattocks… that goes for you as well!’ he roared, clashing his weapons together. ‘Hold!’

The ancient treeman gave a cry, like the splintering of a great oak, and collapsed. Alarielle whipped around, the pain of the world’s dying a drumbeat in her temples, and stared in shock as Skarana, eldest of the oldest, toppled down into death. The bloodthirster roared in triumph and ripped its axe free of the treeman’s body, scattering charred splinters across the heads of the wailing dryads which flung themselves on the daemon’s followers. The daemon charged towards her and Durthu, wings flared, arms wide, as if inviting them to meet it in battle. She could feel her protector stiffen in anticipation, and then relax.

Durthu would not leave her side willingly. Not while only a thin wall of spears separated her from Hellebron’s maddened servants. The treeman did not trust the dwarfs to reach her in time. But he was the only one among them strong enough to dispatch the daemon even now charging towards them. She placed a hand on the rough bark of his wrist. Durthu was the greatest of Athel Loren’s children. In his mighty frame was the strength of the forest itself, and the blade he carried had been forged by the gods.

‘Go,’ Alarielle said. Durthu looked down at her, silently. Alarielle frowned. ‘Go, Durthu. Go begrudgingly, or willingly, but go. Do as I command. I will be here when you return.’ Durthu reached out, and brushed a lock of hair from her face. Then, with a sound like an avalanche, the treeman turned and strode to meet the daemon.

Durthu picked up speed as he moved past the spear-wall of the defenders, and his great root-feet trampled the enemy as he charged towards the approaching daemon, his massive blade held out behind him. He reached out with his free hand, and roared with all the fury of Athel Loren as he smashed into the bloodthirster, sending the daemon staggering sideways into the Middenplatz wall. There was a crackle of snapping bone as the force of the impact shattered the daemon’s wings, and the beast howled in agony.

Durthu didn’t slacken his assault. Even as the bloodthirster tried to rise, the treeman swung his Daith-forged blade up and drove it down through his opponent’s breastplate and into the unnatural flesh beneath. The bloodthirster shrieked and grasped the blade. It hauled itself up and smashed at Durthu with its axe, hacking deep grooves into the treeman’s bark. Durthu ignored the frenzied assault and twisted around, wrenching his blade free of the bloodthirster’s chest. Without pausing, he whirled about, bringing the sword about to chop clean through the daemon’s thick neck.

The treeman stepped aside as the daemon collapsed, but Alarielle did not see what happened next. Her attentions were dragged back to her own predicament, as one of her warriors gave a shout. Alarielle grimaced as the corpse impaled on the woman’s spear abruptly flopped into motion and pulled itself off the point of the weapon. Others began to rise as well, slipping and sliding in their own blood as they struggled upright. Alarielle hissed in pain as the Winds of Life recoiled from the abomination taking place before her. She raised her hand, ready to sweep the risen dead aside with her magics before they could attack, when a sudden shout stayed her hand. A familiar form had dropped from the Middenplatz wall and into the battle, laying about him with a deadly blade.

‘Take heart, dear lady,’ Vlad von Carstein called out as he sprinted past her warriors, accompanied by the staggering forms of the newly slain, who stumbled in his wake. ‘Your champions are legion, be they man, dwarf or heroic tree-stump. Your burying place is not here, and not today. So swears Vlad von Carstein, Elector of Sylvania,’ he shouted, flinging himself into battle like a dark thunderbolt. Where he moved, the enemy fell, only to rise again at his command. With every corpse that rose, a jagged thorn of pain cut into her heart. But those pains were but pinpricks compared to the agony she felt with every breath. The world itself was coming undone, collapsing in on itself like a rotten tree, and she could feel the sharp ache of the artefact Archaon was employing to accomplish the unmaking.

The vampire slithered into the heart of the ranks of the bloodthirster’s followers, his sword flickering like lightning. He employed finesse and brutality in equal measure, and moved with such grace that Alarielle thought even Tyrion might have looked upon him with envy. He employed the risen dead like ambulatory shields, using them to create opportunities for his kills. She shook her head, grateful and disturbed in equal measure, and turned her attentions to her own battle.

Despite the aid of the dead and the dwarfs, Hellebron’s forces had reached the ring of dryads who protected Alarielle, sacrificing their lives to keep her safe. She felt every death, every mangling blow that afflicted the tree-spirits, and it was all she could do to stay on her feet. She watched in dull-eyed horror as dryads flung themselves up the iron stairs of the cauldron-shrine that steadily bore down on her. The spirits attacked Hellebron, who hacked them down with shrieks of laughter. Alarielle closed her eyes. She felt every blow, and her body shuddered as each spirit fell. Hellebron bounded off the cauldron, her lithe shape covered in blood and sap. ‘I see you, queen of weeds and maggots,’ she screeched, gesturing with one of her cruelly curved blades. ‘I see you, and I will wear your pretty skin as a cloak.’ She darted forwards, and two of Alarielle’s guards moved to intercept her. Without slowing, Hellebron swept her blades out and removed their heads.

Alarielle stepped up. Her asrai fell back at her command, clearing a path. She wanted no more of them to die in a futile attempt to stop the Blood Queen. Hellebron danced towards her, grinning madly, and Alarielle wondered how it had come to this. What had set the Blood Queen on this course? She had come to Athel Loren with Malekith and the others, but her loyalty to her people had faded like a morning mist, leaving only this… thing which now capered and shrieked at her in challenge. A challenge that she would meet, though she was no warrior. Though she had learned blade-craft from the finest warriors in Ulthuan, the Everqueen was a creature of peace, rather than war, and even with the power of Life Incarnate, she was little match for the former ruler of Har Ganeth.

‘We looked for you,’ Alarielle said, ‘after Be’lakor’s attack on the Oak of Ages. We thought you had been slain.’ She waited for Hellebron, trying to conserve her strength.

‘That would have pleased you to no end, I’m certain,’ Hellebron cackled. She pulled the edges of her blades across each other, filling the air with their shriek.

‘If you think that, then you are truly demented,’ Alarielle said. ‘You were welcomed into Athel Loren, sorceress. You and your followers both, despite your foul ways. You are of the asur, despite your predilections, and I would not see you dead.’

Hellebron grimaced. ‘You lie,’ she spat. Her grimace twisted into a manic grin. ‘And now, you die!’ She lunged, and Alarielle interposed her staff. The cobblestoned street ruptured as a writhing thicket of thorn-vines burst upwards to ensnare the leaping form of Hellebron. The Blood Queen shrieked in pain, but did not stop. Her blades flashed out, chopping through the vines, and a moment later, she was free. She snarled and drove one of her blades into Alarielle’s belly.

Alarielle screamed as Hellebron jerked the blade free, and clapped a hand to the wound in her stomach. She slumped to her knees, the pain overwhelming her. Her staff rolled away, forgotten. The world seemed to shudder around her, as if in sympathy, and she bowed her head, trying to concentrate through her own internal din. She could feel the essence of Ghyran trying to mend her torn flesh, but she was too weak. The world’s pain, added to her own, was too much to bear. Nonetheless, she could not give in. Too much counted on her. She tried to focus her own magics through those of Ghyran, to bolster her flagging body.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hellebron’s second blade descending towards her neck, as if in slow motion. The Blood Queen’s features were distorted by rage, triumph, and something else. Fear, Alarielle realised. Hellebron was afraid. Of what, she couldn’t say, but that fear was driving the Blood Queen to attack like a wild animal. The Wind of Life whispered in Alarielle’s mind, and in that instant, the Incarnate of Life knew what was required of her.

Alarielle forced herself to her feet and caught Hellebron’s wrist as she rose, halting the blade a hair’s breadth from her neck. She forced her opponent back and tore her hand from her wound. The green energy of life crackled between her bloody fingers as she pressed her hand gently to the side of Hellebron’s contorted face. The magics flowed into the dark elf, and centuries of madness and frenzy were washed away by the healing tide of Ghyran. The fractured psyche of the Blood Queen became whole, for the first time in a thousand or more years, and with lucidity came understanding. For a moment, a different woman entirely looked out through Hellebron’s bulging eyes, saw what she had made of herself, and the witch elf moaned in horror.

Alarielle met Hellebron’s horrified gaze and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, grabbing hold of her opponent’s wrist with both hands, she forced Hellebron’s own blade up into its owner’s chest. The deadly blade passed through Hellebron’s ribs and its curved tip found her heart, and the horror in her eyes faded as her contorted features slackened into something resembling peace. She slumped against Alarielle, and the Everqueen sank back down, blood pouring from the wound in her belly. She slipped down beside her fallen opponent.

She felt cold, and the dark crept in at the edges of her vision. She heard the screams of Hellebron’s remaining followers and the agonised shouts of her people, and wanted to weep for the uselessness of it all, but lacked the strength to do anything but lie still. Is this death, then? she thought. She did not fear it. Aliathra’s face swam before her eyes, and she reached up, hoping to touch her daughter’s cheek once more, to say at last all the things she should have said. I will tell you of your father, and how he tore me from my silk pavilions and slew any who stood in his way, the day that Malekith came for me. I will tell you how we hid in the forests of Avelorn, and what occurred there. I will tell you everything, at last… You are so like him, my daughter. Brave and foolish and proud… I–

A shadow fell over her. Heavy, rough hands picked her up, and a voice like the curling of roots through the hard-packed earth spoke gently to her. Durthu. The treeman cradled her close, and the last thing she heard before oblivion swept her under was his roar, as it shook the Middenplatz down to its foundations.

Vlad watched in consternation as the treeman, still cradling the broken form of the Everqueen, wrenched the cauldron-shrine from its frame and, swinging it by its broken chains, hurled it at the remaining blood-worshippers. Then, with another bone-rattling roar, the ancient spirit uprooted its sword and stalked into battle, killing any who dared stand against it, be they elf, human, beast or daemon.

Too little, too late, brute, Vlad thought, as he blocked a blow from his current opponent, a hammer-wielding berserker who’d announced himself as Harald Hammerstorm, as if Vlad either knew or cared as to his identity. If the Incarnate of Life was dead, that boded ill for their chances to see off whatever apocalypse Archaon was brewing in the bowels of Middenheim. He snarled in frustration. To have come so close, only to fail now, was unacceptable. He had lost Isabella, Sylvania, even Mannfred… He would not lose the world as well.

‘Die, beast,’ Hammerstorm roared. He struck out with a looping blow, which Vlad easily avoided. His riposte glanced from the Chaos warrior’s shield, and they circled one another, each searching for an opening in the other’s defences. Why the warrior had singled him out, Vlad couldn’t say, but he was getting bored. Hammerstorm was tenacious, and annoyingly difficult to hurt. Vlad grinned as the warrior surged towards him, shield tilted, hammer swung back. It was the first mistake his opponent had made, and Vlad intended to make it his last. He slid forward to meet the Chaos warrior, rather than retreating, and let his blade glide across the face of Hammerstorm’s shield. The point of his sword pierced Hammerstorm’s visor, even as the warrior’s hammer caught him in the ribs and knocked him sprawling.

Vlad rolled to his feet with a hiss of pain, one arm pressed tight to his side, as Hammerstorm took a faltering step towards him, hammer raised for another blow. Blood was pouring down the Chaos warrior’s visor. He took another step, a third, and then toppled forwards. He crashed down, and his hammer clattered from his grip. Vlad rose to his feet with a wince, and saluted his fallen enemy.

The wind shifted, and a familiar, if foul, stench invaded his nostrils. He whirled and cursed as he caught sight of the diseased host that crashed against the dwarf line, even as the last of the blood-mad berserkers died. Plaguebearers wielded rusty, pus-encrusted blades against the ragtag shield-wall of the Zhufbarak, and where they struck, metal rusted, leather rotted and flesh turned black and swollen. The golden light of Gelt’s magics warred with the malignant wind of putrefaction as the weary dwarfs met their foes with stolid determination. Even as Vlad hurried towards them, he saw his zombies begin to rot and collapse, even as they had in Sylvania so many weeks ago, and he knew, even though he could not yet see her, that Isabella was near.

‘Hello, wife,’ he murmured. A plaguebearer lurched towards him. Vlad blocked a blow from its mottled blade and snatched a flapping length of intestine from its bloated belly. With a jerk, he tore its guts from its thin body, and decapitated it as it fell to its knees, off balance. ‘Do not hide your pretty face from me, my love… Where are you?’

‘Behind you, my love, my darkling light,’ a voice breathed in his ear. The words faded into the buzzing of flies and he twisted about as a blade tore through his cloak, scraping sparks from his cuirass to mark its path. The swarm of biting, stinging flies enveloped him and he staggered as the insects covered his eyes and nose and mouth, as if seeking to burrow into the meat of him. ‘Come, give me a kiss, Vlad. Open your mouth and let me in,’ Isabella purred, her voice coming from every direction and none.

Vlad slashed out blindly, and the swarm scattered. His zombies were all fallen back into the arms of death, and he stood exposed and alone, caught between the dwarfs and the daemons. He cursed and sprang out of the path of battle, bounding from fallen statues to the tops of fire-blackened stakes and finally to the crumbling ramparts of the Middenplatz wall. Isabella would follow him, he was certain. If she did, their confrontation might give Gelt and Hammerson a chance to defeat the daemons. Without Isabella to guide the beasts, they would be easy enough to banish back to the realm of Chaos.

As he cleared the ramparts, however, a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see an abyssal steed swoop low over the wall before alighting on a crumbled tower, just out of reach. He glared up at the creature and its rider in annoyance. ‘Hello, boy. Come to help, or to hinder?’ Vlad asked.

Mannfred sneered. ‘Neither, if it’s all the same to you. I merely wanted to come say goodbye before your inevitable messy end, old man.’ The other vampire leaned back in his saddle and clapped his hands together. ‘It’s a better one than you deserve, I’ll say that for you.’

‘What you know about what anyone deserves could fill a very small jar,’ Vlad said, suddenly weary. ‘I see you’ve chosen a new side to fight for. How egalitarian of you.’

‘Any port in a storm,’ Mannfred said. He frowned. ‘And the only side I’m interested in fighting for is mine, Vlad. I fight for myself, and no other.’

Vlad smiled, and looked up at the dark sky. ‘I was right. You are like Nagash. More like him than the rest of us, even old Arkhan.’

‘I am nothing like him,’ Mannfred snarled, hammering a fist into his mount’s neck, eliciting a snarling squeal from the beast. ‘Nothing!’

‘No, you’re right. Nagash at least has a will to match his monstrousness. He is true to himself, whatever else. But you are a tyrant, just as he is.’ Vlad shook his head, and looked down at the battle below. ‘A true ruler believes in something greater than himself, boy. A nation, an empire, an ideal. Something…’

‘Oh, spare me,’ Mannfred growled. He flung out a hand. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? You have never done anything out of largesse, old man.’ He smacked his fist against his breastplate. ‘Even me – you only took me under your wing because you needed me.’

Vlad grunted. ‘Not so.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I took you in because I pitied you.’ He cocked his head. ‘In truth, I always preferred Konrad. Dumb as a stone, but honest.’

Mannfred drew himself up, his eyes blazing with hate. Vlad tensed, readying himself for his former protégé’s attack. But Mannfred did not attack. Instead, he shook himself and looked away. Vlad frowned. ‘If you’re not here to plant a sword in my back, boy, why are you wasting my time?’

‘Maybe I simply wanted to indulge in the conviviality of a family gathering once more, before I go to forge my own destiny,’ Mannfred said. Vlad blinked, and then turned towards the gatehouse tower behind him, where he could hear the humming of flies. Isabella, ragged skirts flowing, stepped onto the ramparts.

‘Greetings, husband,’ she said. Her musical tones were overlaid with the guttural growl of the daemon that possessed her. ‘Will you not embrace me?’ she continued. She extended her hand, like a proper noblewoman looking to dance.

‘Yes, Vlad, by all means… embrace her,’ Mannfred said.

Vlad glanced back at him. ‘Leave, boy.’

‘And if I choose to stay?’

‘Then I will kill you after I kill him,’ Isabella said, softly. She drew her sword and extended it. ‘This is not for you, Mannfred. You do not belong here, and you will not sully this moment with your rancour and spite. Run away, little prince. I will find you before the end, have no fear.’

Vlad smiled and shrugged. ‘You heard her, boy. This is a game for adults, not conceited brats. Go bother the elves, eh? I understand Tyrion would like a word or three with you.’ He flapped his hand loosely. Mannfred snarled in frustration and jerked on his steed’s reins. The creature took to the air with a shriek, and Vlad watched it depart. He turned back to Isabella. ‘I won’t let you kill him, my love. Foul as he is, the little prince is still bound to me, and I owe him my protection.’

‘And what do you owe me, my love?’ Isabella said, stepping gracefully towards him.

‘More than that,’ Vlad said softly. ‘I owe you life, and happiness, and eternity. That is what I promised you, once upon a time.’

‘You lied,’ Isabella said, drawing closer.

‘No. Not to you. Never to you,’ Vlad said, readying himself.

‘Lies,’ Isabella hissed. She came for him in a rush, faster than even he could process, and it was only through luck that he parried her blow. They fought back and forth along the rampart, trading blows that would have killed any normal human, or even many vampires. It was all Vlad could do to keep up with her – the daemon in her soul gave her unnatural strength, as well as twisting her mind. Isabella had always been mad but the daemon made it worse, and he cursed it and the gods it served as he fought.

In his mind’s eye, he could still see her as she was on that first night, leaning over her father’s deathbed as he gasped his last. ‘Do you remember the night we met, my love?’ he said, as they crossed blades. ‘The night your father died, and your deceitful uncle attempted to usurp your claim? Do you recall how the stars looked that night?’

‘There was a storm, and no stars,’ Isabella snarled. ‘And you murdered my uncle!’

‘Only with your permission,’ Vlad said, as they broke apart. She screeched and came at him, forcing him to back-pedal. ‘I loved you then, and I love you now…’

‘Lies,’ she hissed, and her sword slashed down, nearly severing his hand at the wrist. His blade fell from nerveless fingers and he staggered back against the ramparts, clutching his wounded wrist. Isabella smiled cruelly, and for a moment, he saw the gloating face of a daemon superimposed over her own. Beneath his grip, he could already feel the ring he wore employing its magics to knit his torn flesh and muscle.

She stretched out her hand, and took a step towards him. ‘I will enjoy seeing your flesh putrefy and slough from your cankerous bones, husband. It is all that you deserve.’

‘Maybe,’ Vlad said. ‘I left you, my poor Isabella. I swore that I would stay by your side forever, and I… lied. I died. And then you…’

She paused, mouth working. He saw the daemon again, snarling silently. Isabella shook her head, and he knew that she was still in there, somewhere. ‘I… died too,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I died.’ She looked at him. ‘I died.’

‘But you live now, and I live, and I will not let you die again, even if it means that I must,’ Vlad said hoarsely. He thought of his dreams, and hopes, of the Empire he’d hoped to rule and serve, and of old friends he’d hoped to see again before the end. And he thought of a young woman named Isabella von Drak, and the way she’d smiled at him in the moonlight, and touched his face without fear, when the beast in him was awakened. And just like that, Vlad von Carstein knew what to do.

He flung himself forwards as she hesitated, and smashed the blade from her hand. As she lunged for him, he grabbed her arms and twisted them up behind her back. Where her hands touched his, his flesh began to moulder and rot, and he snarled in agony, even as he slid the von Carstein ring from his finger and onto hers. Then, grabbing hold of her, he shoved them both towards the edge of the ramparts with the last of his fading strength.

As they fell towards the fire-seared stakes below, Vlad laughed. This feels unpleasantly familiar, he thought, in the moment before they struck one of the stakes at the foot of the wall. The point of the stake punched through Vlad’s heart an instant after Isabella’s. He felt her go limp beneath him. He felt no pain, or regret, and as his body came apart, he caught her head and pressed his lips to hers. Then she was gone, and what was left of Vlad von Carstein slumped into oblivion on its stake.

Balthasar Gelt shouted an incantation, and felt the Wind of Metal surge through him. The air coalesced about the plaguebearer that had been about to strike down one of his bodyguards, and the daemon was suddenly encased in silver. Steam spewed from the tiny gaps in the sheath of blessed metal as the daemon was sent howling back into the void. The dwarf reached out with his hammer and nudged the statue over. He caught Gelt’s eye and grunted wordlessly, as he hefted his battered shield and moved back into the fray.

‘It was my pleasure,’ Gelt said. He wasn’t entirely sure which of the two Anvil Guard it was – whether it was Stromni he’d saved, or Gorgi. It didn’t matter, in any event. They weren’t the most talkative duo, and didn’t seem to know his name either, calling him variously ‘manling’, ‘wizard’ or the more ubiquitous ‘human’.

He swung his staff about, unleashing a crackling surge of magic. More daemons were erased from existence, ripped apart by golden bolts or shredded by tendrils of thrashing iron. But for every chortling plaguebearer that fell, two more took its place. The daemons were without number, and without fear. They crashed again and again into the ragged and ever-shrinking shield-wall of the Zhufbarak like a limitless tide of filth. The air was thick with flies and screams. Not even his magic could hold them back indefinitely.

The knowledge didn’t weigh as heavily on him as it once might have. As far as he was concerned, he was living on borrowed time. He had cast his soul into the blackest depths, and it was only by chance that he had been saved from damnation. If this be doomsday, I will not flinch from it, he thought, and then smiled at his own pomposity. It’s not like I’ll have the time, at any rate. The world is coming apart and it will take greater powers than mine to hold it together. He tossed his staff from one hand to the other and drew his sword, parrying a blow from a pox-riddled blade. As their weapons scraped apart, Gelt rammed his staff into the plaguebearer’s belly and sent a pulse of magic thrumming through it. The plaguebearer twitched in consternation, and then exploded as a thousand thin spikes of gold tore it apart from the inside.

Gelt swung his staff about like a morning star, and sent the ever-expanding sphere of spikes hurtling into the packed ranks of the enemy. The sphere exploded into a thicket of thrashing tendrils, and at his shouted command, the dwarfs took the opportunity to fall back while their foes were otherwise occupied. As dwarfs streamed past him, Gelt set his staff and roused the hidden deposits of ore in the bedrock of the Fauschlag, summoning them to the surface. Great barricades of molten metal flowered into being between the Zhufbarak and the plague-host.

‘That won’t hold them long.’

Gelt turned to see Hammerson stumping towards him. The runesmith had lost his helm, and his face and beard were streaked with blood and soot. Nonetheless, he was smiling grimly. ‘Good plan, though. Give us a minute to have a wee drink, at any rate.’

‘I think we’re out of Bugman’s,’ Gelt said. ‘You’ll have to settle for water.’

‘I’ll die thirsty then,’ Hammerson said. ‘Out of Bugman’s… it really is the end of the world.’ He tossed his head, indicating the remaining elves. ‘The elgi woman, Alarielle… she’s dying, lad.’

Gelt turned and looked towards the ragged ring of elven shields that sheltered the fallen Everqueen. Her remaining warriors surrounded her, fighting alongside the dwarfs. The treeman, Durthu, loomed over the Everqueen, killing any daemon which drew too close. As Gelt watched, the ancient spirit spread its arms and roared so loudly that a semi-ruined wall nearby collapsed, filling the air with dust.

‘What is he doing?’ Gelt muttered, as Durthu hurled its sword into the leering, bloated face of a great unclean one, spitting the greater daemon like a hog over a fire-pit. The treeman shoved Alarielle’s defenders aside and sank down beside her limp, pale form. Gelt started forwards, but Hammerson grabbed him.

‘Don’t even think about it, lad. Whatever he’s doing, it’s only bound to help, and you’ll only rile him up if you interfere,’ the dwarf said. Gelt subsided, but continued to watch, unable to look away. As he watched in awe, the treeman’s bark-flesh withered and cracked, and leaves fell like dust from his shoulders and head. Gelt could feel the power flowing between Durthu and Alarielle, and knew, without knowing how, that the treeman was giving of his own life to restore the Everqueen.

The calcified and crumbling husk of Durthu collapsed in on itself as Alarielle’s form swelled with light and life. She rose, her flesh unmarked, her eyes clear. She gently touched the crumbling remains of Durthu and then turned. The light of Ghyran crackled in her eyes, and she spread her arms and threw back her head to sing a single perfect note.

Gelt and Hammerson threw up their hands to protect their eyes as white fire, crested with green, filled the Middenplatz and roared hungrily through the Palast District. It passed over the heads of the remaining elves and dwarfs harmlessly, but where it struck the hordes of daemons, it wreaked a terrible destruction. Hundreds of daemons were reduced to ash in a matter of moments, but thousands more pressed forwards, through the sooty remains of their fellows. To Gelt, it was as if the Dark Gods were determined to prevent them from reaching the centre of the city at any cost.

And why wouldn’t they be? That is where Archaon is, and his devilish artefact, and that is where the true battle is. Not here, Gelt thought, looking around. They were cut off. Surrounded on all sides… save one. The northern gatehouse had been cleared by Alarielle’s fire. As she moved to join he and Hammerson, he looked at her. ‘We must get to the Temple of Ulric,’ he said. She frowned, one hand pressed to her head.

‘Yes… I can feel it. That is where the artefact is,’ she said, wincing as if the thought pained her. ‘But we have no time. Our forces cannot…’

‘No,’ Hammerson grunted. ‘We cannot. But we can hold the way clear, and buy you time.’ The runesmith gestured and Gelt saw one of Hammerson’s Anvil Guard lead his pegasus, Quicksilver, towards them. His heart leapt at the sight of the proud animal. It had been hurt during the battle in the King’s Glade, one wing badly scorched. But though the animal couldn’t fly, Quicksilver was still the fastest stallion this side of the famed stables of Tiranoc. Or would have been, had either the stables or Tiranoc still existed.

‘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.’