CHAPTER TWENTY

The Depths of the Fauschlag

Teclis opened his eyes as the cavern shook. Great fangs of rock fell down from the roof of the chamber to smash across the ground, and dust choked the air. Whatever was going on above, its echoes were reverberating through the mountain Middenheim was built on. Or perhaps it was not the battle above but the abomination below that was causing the Fauschlag to shudder so.

The warp-artefact shone ominously at the centre of the rough-hewn chamber, its surface rippling with hateful colours. He squinted against its cold light, trying to make out the shapes that dived and swam within it, but gave up after a moment. Sorcerers clustered about it, uttering harsh chants to coax the thing to life.

Learned as he was, he only recognised a few of the incantations being shouted. Even those he knew were archaic, older even than the elves themselves, and had likely not been spoken aloud since the time of the Old Ones. As he watched, a sorcerer toppled over, smoke rising from her mouth and eyes. Her body joined those of the others who had been overcome by the power they were seeking to manipulate.

Teclis tested the bonds that held him moored to the cavern wall. Despite the wide cracks that now ran the width and breadth of the walls and floor, his chains remained taut. His wrists were raw from previous attempts, and blood dripped down his fingers. He did not stop trying, despite the pain. There was nothing else to do but try. Anything else was surrender, and now that he was here, now that it had come to this point, Teclis had discovered wellsprings of what some might have called courage, but which he suspected to be spite.

The spite of a child always in the shadow of his stronger sibling. The spite of a man who had never been trusted by those he called friends and allies, because of his gifts. The spite of one who had been forced to sacrifice everything for a chance at victory, only to find himself falling short yet again, despite his best efforts. And it was the spite of a gamesman without any moves left, as much as anything else, of one who had been outmanoeuvred and outplayed. So Teclis hauled on his chains, strengthened by bile, and anger, and frustration; there was hatred in his heart, and he would not, could not yield. He did not know what he would do if he got loose, but he would do something. Anything.

That he could feel the wellspring of magic which filled the cavern only added to his frustration. It had been drawn from the rock and the air by the thousands of blood sacrifices Archaon had ordered conducted. The bodies of those unfortunates lay strewn about the chamber like a carpet of abused flesh, and the smell of their dying hung thick on the air. The magics roared about like a wind, caught in the pull of the warp-artefact, but Teclis could not manipulate even the slenderest thread, thanks to baleful runes etched into his manacles.

Where are you, brother? he thought. Do you still live? Do the others? Or was it all for nothing? He threaded his thin fingers through the links and turned, trying again, as he had so many times before, to pull the chains free of the rock. As he did so, he looked around, taking in the silent ranks of the Swords of Chaos, and their master on his hell-steed. Archaon stared up at the oily surface of the artefact as if captivated. He had not looked away from it since they’d arrived, save to occasionally check that Teclis was still safely bound.

You should have killed me, Teclis thought, bracing his foot against the wall. Pain screamed through his shoulders and arms, but he ignored it. But you need an audience, don’t you? Like a petulant child, waiting to throw his tantrum until his parents are close by. You need me to see what you have done. His muscles throbbed with weariness and a bone-deep ache, but he strained backwards regardless. Blood welled around the edges of his manacles, and he could not restrain a grunt of pain.

Another quake shook the cavern. Stalactites speared down, shatter­ing on the ground, filling the air with debris. Gold gleamed in the cracks above his head, and not for the first time, he wondered about the true nature of the Fauschlag. Not that it matters, he thought. Yet, the part of him that was still a loremaster remained curious. More stalactites rained down, and several of the chanting sorcerers were crushed into messy pulp. Those closest to them made as if to flee, but returned to their labours at a simple gesture from Archaon. They feared the Everchosen more than a death by falling rock, and Teclis couldn’t blame them.

A faint sound tugged at his ears. Faint, but growing louder. He recognised it instantly, and smiled suddenly, fiercely. Brother. I knew you would not let me down. I knew it!

Teclis licked his cracked and bleeding lips, and cleared his throat. ‘Do you hear that, Everchosen?’ he called out, letting his chains fall.

Archaon did not turn.

Teclis smiled. ‘Do you hear the sound of the drums, Archaon? The crash of steel, the tread of feet? Those are the sounds of battle, Three-Eyed King. You asked me earlier what I saw, Archaon. Well, I saw the future – your future – and it is not pretty.’ He hurled the words at Archaon, taunting him. Words were all he had left, and he intended to expend his quiver.

‘Silence,’ Archaon said. He turned in his saddle, his eyes glowing eerily within his helm.

‘Do you remember what I said, on the ramparts?’ Teclis continued. ‘Sigmar is coming, Archaon. No… he is here. Do you hear him? Do you feel him?’

‘Sigmar is a fairy tale. A myth for children, the mad and the blind,’ Archaon rumbled. ‘Which are you, elf?’

‘I don’t know. Which are you, human?’ Teclis spat. Child, he thought, I am a child. Or mad, but I have seen too much to be blind.

Archaon wheeled his horse about, and his hand hovered over the hilt of his sword. For a moment, Teclis wondered if the Everchosen would strike him down. The chamber shuddered again, and Archaon laughed softly. He glanced over his shoulder, up at the flickering warp-artefact. As Teclis watched in horror, the artefact’s gleaming surface abruptly swelled, doubling in size. Those sorcerers closest to it were sucked into its depths, their screams echoing through the cavern. Vast, pain-wracked faces bulged from within it, pressing against the oily skin of the artefact, and whorls of colour contracted and broke apart in dizzying fashion. Terrible lights gleamed up through the cracks in the cavern floor, and a strange, sickly sweet smell filled Teclis’s nostrils as the air wavered, suddenly full of shapes which were not quite in synch with the world. They moved too swiftly, or too slowly, about him, and he shied away from leering faces and insubstantial gripping talons.

Daemonic whispers filled his mind, clawing at the walls of his soul. The sphere increased in size again, and the whispers grew louder. He thrashed in his chains as the daemons tore at his will and sanity. The end was mere minutes away, he knew. The sphere was growing exponentially, but it could only grow so big before it at last imploded. And when it collapsed, the Fauschlag, and all within it, would be wrenched into the Realm of Chaos, as the rest of the world was slowly, but surely torn apart.

‘It is beautiful, is it not?’ Archaon said, as the wraith-like shapes of daemons swirled about him as if he were the eye of a storm. ‘Here is the doom of all mankind, come round at last.’ He raised a hand, and daemonic shapes coiled about his arm and fingers like serpents. ‘These are the last moments. Glory in them, Teclis of Cothique, for after this, only horror awaits you.’ Archaon spread his arms.

‘A great and beautiful horror awaits us all.’

Wendel Volker watched in awe as the Emperor, Tyrion and the orc, Grimgor, carved a savage path through the horde of squealing skaven. Though the fighting was not confined to them, they bore the brunt of the red work being done in those tunnels. The skaven died in their hundreds, and their bodies carpeted the cold bedrock of the calcified catacombs where they’d chosen to make their stand, but there were always more of them.

Volker, axe in hand, hauled a wounded elf archer to her feet and shoved her back towards her fellows as armoured stormvermin burst out of a side tunnel and charged towards the small force of men and elves. Before he could shout for his fellow Reiksguard, Gelt stepped forwards and gestured sharply, sending a hail of golden shards hammering into the ratkin. He watched in disgust as the newly dead skaven twitched upright a moment later, dragged back to their feet by the will of Nagash. He cut his gaze towards the swirling black cloud which surrounded the Undying King, and felt Ulric snarl within him.

He knew how the god felt. It was one thing to ally with elves, or even orcs, but the liche was something else entirely. He was as wrong as Chaos, in his way, and he cared nothing for the lives of his allies. Nagash ranged ahead of them all, moving swiftly, killing himself a path through the enemy with magic, sword or choking cloud. No skaven monster or war machine could stand against him, and they had faced plenty of both after descending into the Fauschlag. The deeper they went, the more fierce the resistance became.

The Incarnates had been forced to combine their efforts, fighting together for the first time since they had all gathered in Athel Loren. Malekith’s shadow-constructs harried the enemy, driving them squealing into the path of Gelt’s shards or Alarielle’s thorns. Tyrion and the Emperor guarded Grimgor’s flanks as the orc and his Immortulz bulled ahead, taking on the worst the skaven could send against them with enthusiasm rather than strategy.

From behind him, Volker heard the rasping intake of breath that heralded Malekith’s dragon preparing to breathe its reeking smoke into another set of tunnels. The great beast, and Deathclaw, had had a tough time of it at first, for neither beast would be parted from their respective masters and they’d had to squirm and scrape through the upper tunnels. But once those manmade tunnels had given way to the cavernous natural corridors, the dragon had flared its wings and lent its might to the advance.

Tough beast, Ulric murmured, admiringly.

‘Glad it’s on our side,’ Volker said. He spun his axe, and chopped through a spear as it sought his belly. He slashed out, killing the skaven who’d wielded it, and then those behind it. Ulric had some strength yet, and the god lent it freely. Volker was not equal to the Incarnates, but he was more than the man he had been.

The Fauschlag continued to shake and shudder about them, and more than once, Volker heard the scream of a man or elf as they vanished into some crevasse, or were crushed by rocks tumbling from above. The moans of the wounded pursued them all down through the tunnels. Those who were trapped, or could not walk, were left behind to survive as best they could. That which was still the man he had been cringed in horror at the thought, but the wolf in him, the part that was ice, knew that it was necessary. Time was of the essence, and there was none to spare for those who could not march.

A strange light played across the blade of his axe as he swung it and swept the head from a skaven’s shoulders. As the body fell, he saw that the ratmen were fleeing, scuttling for their holes. Do you smell it, Wendel Volker? We are here, Ulric thundered in his head. The wolf-god gave a joyous howl. We are here and our prey is at last within reach! Blood is on the air, and the sounds of battle fill our ears. Rend and slay, tear and smash! Vengeance!

Volker shuddered as the godspark twisted and writhed in agitation within him. Blood poured down his skin as white hairs grew from his pores, and his bones cracked and shifted. He closed his eyes, trying to fight past the pain. Suddenly a cool hand pressed itself against the back of his grimy neck, and he felt a cleansing wind blow through the cold runnels of his soul. He turned and saw Alarielle. The Everqueen smiled sadly, and stepped back as he flinched away from her. ‘I – thank you,’ Volker said. He could taste blood in his mouth. He didn’t know what she had done, but the pain had lessened.

‘Do not thank me,’ the Everqueen said. ‘Fight, son of the Empire. Fight hard, and die well, if it comes to that.’

‘Which it almost certainly will,’ Malekith said. The Eternity King glared at Volker. ‘Whatever lurks within you, man, see that it does not seek to hinder us. We have arrived at the precipice and I would not be sent over the edge by mistake.’ Malekith gestured with his sword, and Volker turned back towards the strange light. He smelt an acrid stink, and Ulric growled, Daemon-spoor. They had come to a wide, high cavern, which rang with the shrieks of daemons and the grinding of shifting rock. And the light as well, which burned and chilled at the same time, the way the sun was said to do in the far north.

Before them was arrayed the full might of the Lord of the End Times. Daemons of every size and description blocked their path to the artefact, and they surrounded a core of black iron – Archaon, Volker knew, and his Swords of Chaos. ‘There are thousands of them,’ someone muttered. Similar mutters ran through the ranks, and hands tightened on weapons as men and elves faced the army of the End Times.

‘More than that,’ Volker said. If I were still a gambling man, I wouldn’t bet a farthing on our chances, he thought. He felt strangely calm, and wondered whether that was Ulric’s doing, or Alarielle’s.

‘No wonder the vermin ran,’ Gelt said hollowly. ‘I wouldn’t want to get caught in the middle of this either.’ The Incarnate of Metal sounded tired, and Volker knew how he felt. Wherever he looked, there were bloody bandages, bound limbs and exhausted faces.

Volker looked to the Emperor, and saw him sitting rigid in Deathclaw’s saddle, his hammer across his lap. He stared across the cavern, and his face was placid, as if he were deep in thought. That was always his problem, Ulric growled. Too much thinking. What is there to think about? The enemy is here, we are here, there is only one choice. There is no more time for cleverness. There is only time now for blood, steel and will!

As if in reply to the wolf-god’s muttering, Grimgor threw back his head and gave a wild bellow, which drowned out even the raucous howling of the gathered daemonic hosts. The orc spread his arms, and his Immortulz gave voice to their own cries. Then, with a rattle of iron, the greenskins charged. ‘Well, that’s torn it,’ Volker said.

The daemons reacted instantly, surging forwards like a sea of infernal fury to meet the Incarnate of Beasts and his warriors. Bloodletters bounded up, hissing Khorne’s praises; horrors of all hues and shades laughed uproariously and hurled torrents of writhing magic without regard for friend or foe; plaguebearers shambled into battle, pox-blades ready; and the handmaidens of Slaanesh danced in, claws snapping. And behind them all came the greater daemons, driving their lesser manifestations on with lash and bellowed order.

The Emperor lifted Ghal Maraz, and, as one, the Incarnates and their remaining forces started to advance. There was no grand strategy or battle-order. There was only the raw press of the melee, strength against strength, and human muscle and will against daemonic caprice. Volker began to run as, around him, knights galloped into battle. Silver Helms and Dragon Princes joined the charge, shouting out the battle cries of fallen Ulthuan and Caledor. Arrows arced overhead, and Malekith’s dragon uttered a scream of rage and anticipation as it launched itself into the air. The dead bodies of skaven, elves and men lurched past Volker as he ran, stumbling into battle with broken blades and empty fists.

Volker ducked under the slash of a bloodletter’s black blade, and hammered his axe into the daemon’s gut. The creature folded over him, its fiery ichor scorching his armour. He tore the axe loose and turned. There, Ulric snarled. There he is – the thief!

He saw the ragged shape of Teclis chained to a wall across the cavern, and he snarled deep in his throat. Volker hefted his axe and began to lope towards the prisoner. Icy strength flooded his limbs, propelling him faster and faster. Daemons lunged at him out of the press of battle, and he hacked them down. He leapt over the body of a burning elf as a salvo of coruscating sorcery enveloped a number of Malekith’s warriors, and chopped through the gangly arm of a pink horror as it sought to snare him.

As he ran, he saw the orcs crash into the wild, pirouetting daemonettes. The shrieking laughter of the latter rapidly turned to screams as the black orcs proved uninterested in anything save slaughter. Volker was forced to leap aside as the pearlescent hoof of a keeper of secrets slammed down nearby. The daemon strutted into battle against Grimgor. The orc launched himself at the creature with a roar, and his axe smashed down into the distorted, bovine skull, filling the air with ichor. The orc’s roar of triumph followed Volker as he continued on, arrowing towards his prey.

A plaguebearer rose up before him, and he smashed his axe into its bulging side, tearing it out the other in a welter of foulness. The daemon sagged, its blade falling from its rubbery fingers as Volker stepped over it. The air was cold around him. He looked down at Teclis, and said, ‘Hello, thief.’ But it wasn’t his voice. It was the deep, rough growl of the godspark within him. ‘Your debt has come due.’

‘Well, wolf-god, if that is who and what you are,’ Teclis murmured, through bloody lips, ‘I am helpless at last. Your prey hangs before you, throat bared. What will you do?’

Volker glared at him. Everything around him, the noise of the battle behind him, the constant keening wail of the shimmering black sphere at the centre of the cavern, all of it fell away, lost in the howling of wolves. He was cold inside and out, and despite the heat of the cavern, his breath frosted on the air. He raised his axe. Teclis closed his eyes.

Volker hesitated. Teclis cracked one eye. The elf smiled. ‘Then, perhaps I am not your prey after all, despite your howling.’ He grimaced, as a spasm of pain rippled through him. ‘Am I your enemy, Wendel Volker? Or are we at last allies in this last hunt?’

Volker shook his head. He lowered his weapon. The Fauschlag shook, and Volker closed his eyes for a moment as the howling grew too much to bear. In his head, he heard the voice of Gregor Martak. You will not die, Wendel Volker. Not until you have done as I command. ‘No,’ he said, softly, as he looked at Teclis. ‘You are not my quarry.’ He turned. He spotted Archaon, galloping through the press of battle, and Ulric howled within him. Yes, yes!

And then, axe in hand, the last servant of the wolf-god went on the hunt.

Sigmar Unberogen saw the battle as if through a prism – scenes and vignettes of heroism and struggle flashed across his eyes. He saw Malekith, once more astride his dragon, shadows flaring about him like a dark cloak, hurtle into battle against two malevolent lords of change. He saw Alarielle, pale and weak, the world’s pain battering at her body and mind, snare a gambolling beast of Nurgle in a web of thorns and tear it to slimy shreds. He saw Gelt unbind the enchantments that bound together daemonic weapons, and loose swarms of flesh-rending shards to tear scores of daemons apart. He saw Nagash, lurid amethyst fires boiling in his eye sockets, stalk forwards, his spells and legion of corpses driving the enemy before him.

Strange times, he thought, as he watched the liche do battle with the world’s foes. There was a strange sort of nobility there, buried beneath the murk and madness. A will that rivalled his own, a drive for victory that was second to none. Nagash would fight to the end, for he could not countenance defeat. As he watched, the liche swung his blade and opened a bloodthirster’s belly, scattering burning ichor through the air.

Deathclaw’s screech brought him back to himself and Ghal Maraz lashed out, smashing the malformed skull of a plaguebearer. Around him, the remaining members of the Reiksguard fought from horseback, or on foot, as they slowly pushed their way towards the warp-artefact. Sigmar watched as the men – his men – fought on, and thought, once, I would have known your names. I would have known who you were, and we would have shared wine and blood. I do not know you now, and I am sorry.

He jabbed his hammer out, and sent a bolt of cerulean lightning smashing into a pack of flesh hounds as they loped towards Grimgor. The orc was oblivious to his peril, being too occupied with trying to shove his axe down the throat of a great unclean one. The beasts were hurled back, or up into the air, their scaly bodies blackened and broken. Saving an orc, Sigmar thought. What would Alaric say? He smiled. He’d probably be annoyed all of his runefangs have gone missing.

The air throbbed as the artefact at the chamber’s heart pulsed, and as Sigmar turned towards it, he saw it expand to almost four times its previous size. Jagged lesions appeared on its outer skin, spreading like stress fractures in a pane of glass. A brilliant white light shone from the growing wounds, dazzling and painful in its intensity. The Fauschlag gave a sudden, jarring lurch, and Sigmar knew that they were out of time.

Great slabs of rock crashed down from above, pulverising zombies, daemons and even a few luckless elves. Sigmar jerked Deathclaw into motion as he saw Tyrion’s horse go down amidst the rain of debris, its leg broken. The griffon barrelled in with a shriek and snatched both horse and rider out of the path of a stalactite. The elf looked up at Sigmar and nodded his thanks as he and his wounded steed were deposited nearby. Sigmar didn’t waste words on inquiring after the elf’s health. Hurt or not, Tyrion would fight on. He urged Deathclaw back towards the centre of the cavern, hoping he might reach the artefact. Though what I’m going to do when I get there is another matter entirely, he thought, as his hammer crashed down on a bloodletter’s flat skull.

He spotted Malekith as he hurtled through the rain of falling stones, and gestured towards Teclis’s bound form, hoping the Eternity King would understand. There was no way his voice would carry through the cacophony of the collapsing cavern. Fortunately, the Incarnate of Shadow seemed to have grasped his meaning, and he nodded tersely as his dragon wheeled about in the air to swoop towards Teclis, ignoring the rocks which bounced off its scaly hide. Sigmar looked around, trying to spot the other Incarnates.

He saw the great unclean one Grimgor had been attempting to throttle struck by an immense chunk of rock, and it burst under the impact, foetid liquid spurting free from the torn prison of unnatural flesh to spatter all who fought around it. The orc dodged aside at the last moment and now stood alone almost in the centre of the cavern, his Immortulz spread out around him, locked in combat with the fallen daemon’s servitors.

As Grimgor turned towards the light of the sphere, Sigmar saw Archaon, still sitting astride his horse before the artefact, raise a fist. The Swords of Chaos lowered their lances as one, and started forwards. The Chaos knights picked up speed, and soon they were galloping towards the orcs, Archaon at their head.

‘Faster, old friend,’ Sigmar shouted, as Deathclaw lunged. But even as the griffon careened towards the centre of the cavern, Sigmar knew he would be too late. Grimgor caught sight of Archaon and roared in delight. The orc charged to meet the oncoming knights, his bodyguard loping alongside him. The greenskins crashed into Archaon’s warriors and carnage ensued. Grimgor beheaded a horse with a wild blow, and dragged a knight from his saddle as the man sought to ride past.

The Incarnate of Beasts swung the hapless Chaos knight like a bludgeon, battering at the latter’s comrades with more enthusiasm than accuracy. He hurled the limp body aside and whirled to meet the charge of the Lord of the End Times. Archaon bore down on the orc, intending to ride him under, but Grimgor was too fast. He slid aside, avoiding the thrashing hooves of the hell-steed, and lunged at its rider. His axe slammed into Archaon’s shield, buckling it and knocking the Three-Eyed King from the saddle.

Sigmar felt a thrill of hope as he watched the orc stalk towards the fallen Everchosen. Of all of them, he had thought the brute the least likely to strike the killing blow. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

‘I will not be felled by a beast,’ Archaon snarled, his voice carry­ing over the clamour of battle. He surged to his feet, even as Grimgor reached him. ‘I am Archaon, and I am the end made flesh,’ he shouted. He slashed out, nearly opening the orc’s belly. ‘What do you say to that, animal?’

‘Grimgor says shut up and die,’ the orc roared. Axe crashed against sword, as the brute hurled himself at Archaon with wild abandon. Back and forth, they reeled through the melee, trading blows that would have felled dozens of lesser opponents. The orc’s axe scored red lines across Archaon’s armour, and Archaon’s blade drew blood again and again.

Finally, axe met sword and the two weapons became tangled, and their wielders strained against one another, using every ounce of strength that they possessed to hold their ground against their foe. For a long moment they stood, head to head, the Lord of the End Times and the Once and Future Git, the Three-Eyed King and the Boss of the East. Then, with a guffaw, Grimgor’s skull crashed against Archaon’s helm. Sigmar saw the strange, flickering gemstone set in the Everchosen’s helmet shatter, and realised that Archaon was the Three-Eyed King no more. The Everchosen would have to make do with the two he’d been born with – what was left of the Eye of Sheerian speckled the broad expanse of Grimgor’s brow.

The blow broke the stalemate, and the two warriors staggered apart. Archaon reached up to touch the crumpled face of his helm, and he howled in rage. A strange energy suddenly illuminated the blade of his sword and rippled up his arm, and then he was striding in with liquid grace. Grimgor met his advance, and each time they traded blows, black lightning streaked from the point of impact, until at last the orc’s axe succumbed and shivered apart in his hands. The orc staggered back, eyes bulging.

He didn’t stay off balance for long, however, and he tossed aside the remains of the useless weapon and leapt for Archaon, hands reaching for the Everchosen’s throat. Archaon rolled into the collision, and his sword’s point erupted from between Grimgor’s shoulder blades in an explosion of blood. The orc staggered, and slumped with a guttural sigh. His thick fingers clawed uselessly at Archaon’s cuirass as he slid to the ground, and a writhing amber haze rose from his form, to coalesce briefly in the air before collapsing into wisps of light which were drawn towards the shimmering void growing within the warp-artefact.

Grimgor’s warriors uttered a communal howl of fury as their boss fell, and flung themselves at the Swords of Chaos with redoubled ferocity. Archaon beheaded one as the orc clawed at him, and turned to meet Sigmar’s gaze as the latter leaned forwards in Deathclaw’s saddle. The griffon hurtled across the cavern, the Reiksguard galloping in his wake. Behind him, Sigmar heard the death-scream of a dragon, but he could not afford to take his eyes off his enemy. ‘Archaon,’ he roared. ‘Face me, Destroyer.’

Chaos knights hurriedly interposed themselves, and died beneath Deathclaw’s talons. Sigmar smashed Ghal Maraz down on upraised shields and shattered thrusting swords. Axes and swords hacked into the griffon’s limbs and flanks, and its shrieks of pain and rage filled Sigmar’s ears, but he could not afford to retreat, not now, and never again. He caught sight of elves and zombies to either side of him, fighting against the daemons that sought to envelop his desperate spearhead. He heard the crackle of magics, and saw screeching daemons evaporate as they swooped towards him.

Deathclaw gave a great shudder and lunged with a heart-­wrenching cry, to slam into a rearing steed. Sigmar was flung from the saddle, as was the rider of the horse, and as he rose to his feet, he saw that he was face to face with Archaon.

Sparks flew as Ghal Maraz smashed against the Slayer of Kings. Lightning rippled along the hammer’s rune-etched head, vying with the dark fire that swirled about the Everchosen’s daemon-blade. Nearby, Deathclaw and Archaon’s steed fought savagely, and the rocky ground was spattered with blood and ichor as the two animals clawed and bit one another. ‘I beat you once, follower of lies,’ Archaon roared, thrusting out a hand. ‘I ripped your lightning from you, and shattered your last redoubt, and I will do it again…’

Sigmar grinned fiercely as nothing happened. Blood streaked his face and beard, but he felt no weakness. Not now. He batted Archaon’s hand aside and slammed Ghal Maraz down on the Everchosen’s pauldron, knocking him back. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ he said. He thrust the hammer forwards like a spear and caught Archaon in the chest. ‘Take my lightning, Everchosen.’

Archaon staggered back. ‘I – what?’

Sigmar tapped his own brow. ‘We’re on an equal footing now, boy. Just me and you.’ He swung the hammer again, and Archaon barely parried it. Each punishing blow bled into the one that followed and Sigmar pushed his opponent back, until Archaon slashed at him, gouging his armour and cutting the flesh beneath. Behind him, the warp-artefact gave another blinding pulse, and the cracks in its surface grew wider. He heard Deathclaw utter a shrill cry, and saw the griffon fall, tangled with Archaon’s mount in its death-throes. The latter gave voice to a final whinny before Deathclaw’s talons tore out its throat, and then both beasts were still. Sadness swept through him as he bashed Archaon’s sword aside and drove his hammer into the Everchosen’s cuirass, turning one of the skull tokens hanging there to powder.

The griffon had known he wasn’t its master, though he wore the man’s skin. It had served him regardless, and it had served him well. He had not known Karl Franz, though he wished he had. That the beast had loved him so, enough to fight on as it had, spoke well of the Emperor. Scattered memories, not his own but those of the body he had taken possession of, filled his mind, and he saw the Imperial Zookeeper hand over an egg to a youth on the edge of manhood. He saw the first faltering steps of the cub, as Karl Franz fed it morsels from his own fingers. And he saw their first battle, and felt a savage joy as the griffon defended the body of its wounded master. I am sorry, he thought. I am sorry for it all.

‘You will fall here,’ Sigmar said, fighting for breath. His strength was ebbing. ‘Whatever else happens, you will fall.’ He felt the ground tremble beneath his feet, and he saw that the warp-artefact was no more – it had been completely consumed by the swirling void it had given birth to. The roiling surface of the sphere ate away at the cavern around it, and a crackling, empty void of white was left in place of the churned rock. His heart sank.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Archaon said. ‘Nothing matters. I’ve won. This world will burn, and something better will rise from the ashes.’ He launched a flurry of blows that Sigmar was hard-pressed to block. He was moving slower now, and the entire right side of his armour was slippery with his own blood. Archaon didn’t seem to tire, but Sigmar, for all his power, knew he wasn’t so lucky. His heartbeat hammered in his ears and his lungs burned, but despite it all, despite the danger, he knew he wouldn’t have traded places with anyone.

This is where I was meant to be, he thought. Despite the fury of battle, he was calm. This is my reason for living, this is why I was born. This moment is mine. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a white-furred shape lope towards him, and he smiled. Hello, old wolf. You told me once I would come to a bad end, and here we are.

Archaon’s sword slipped past his flagging guard and smashed into his cuirass. Sigmar fell back, off balance. He struck the ground hard, and Ghal Maraz was jolted from his hand. He stared up at Archaon, as the latter lifted his blade in both hands.

‘To think, they believed that you could save them,’ Archaon said.

‘To think, I once thought you might do that yourself,’ Sigmar said. Archaon hesitated. Sigmar smiled sadly. ‘Diederick Kastner, son of a daughter of the Empire. You could have been the sword that swept my land free of Chaos forever. In a better world, perhaps you have. But here and now, you are nothing more than another petty warlord.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ Archaon said, still holding his sword aloft.

‘I know you. I saw you born and I saw you die, again and again. I saw your soul twisted all out of shape by the honeyed words of daemons, and I saw you turn your back on me. I saw and I wept, for you, and for what I knew you would do.’

Archaon lowered his blade. ‘No…’

‘You made yourself a pawn of prophecy,’ Sigmar said. ‘You set your feet on this path. The daemons helped, but it was you who walked into the darkness. It was you who fled the light, Diederick.’

‘You are not Sigmar. The gods are all dead, and he was a lie,’ Archaon grated.

‘Are they dead, or are they a lie? Make up your mind,’ Sigmar said. He could see Ghal Maraz’s haft, just out of the corner of his eye. He stretched a hand towards it.

‘You are lying,’ Archaon roared. He lifted his sword, but before he could bring it down, there was a flash of white fur, and then Wendel Volker was there. Axe and sword connected with a screech, and the former exploded in its owner’s hands. Volker staggered, and Archaon’s sword chopped down, through his shoulder and into his chest. Archaon tore his blade free and the Reiksguard fell. Sigmar rolled over and reached for the hammer, but Archaon kicked it aside. ‘No! No more distractions. No more lies,’ Archaon howled. ‘You die now, and your Empire dies with you.’ He made to move after Sigmar, but something stopped him. Sigmar looked down, and saw Volker clinging to Archaon’s legs.

‘I told you once, Everchosen. When a wolf bites, he does not let go,’ Volker croaked. ‘And I told you that you would die here, whatever else.’ Archaon looked down in obvious shock, and Volker grinned up at him. ‘This is my city, man, and you will not take it!’ Ice began to spread across Archaon’s greaves, and he roared in anger and pain as the cold gnawed at him. Then the Slayer of Kings flashed down, and Wendel Volker, bearer of the godspark of Ulric, was no more.

Sigmar saw Volker slump, and heard, deep in his mind, the death-howl of the god he had worshipped in his youth. He had no time to mourn, for even as Archaon tore his blade free of the body of the last of the Reiksguard, the Everchosen pivoted and brought the howling daemon-blade down. But Volker and Ulric’s sacrifice had given him the time he needed to recover, and call up the lightning that was again his to command.

Sigmar thrust his hands up, and felt the blade crash against his palms. Lightning crackled between flesh and the hungry bite of tainted steel, and Sigmar slowly closed his fingers tight about the blade. Then he pushed himself erect, driving Archaon back with every step. The Everchosen tried to push back, but the Emperor was too strong.

And then, with a scream that was of joy as much as it was of pain, the Slayer of Kings shattered in Sigmar’s grip. Archaon reeled as smoking shards of the daemon-blade tore into his armour. Blinded, dazed, he stumbled back. Sigmar lunged forwards and drove his fist into Archaon’s featureless helm, buckling the metal, and driving him back, over the precipice, and into the maelstrom of shadows.

Archaon, Lord of the End Times, vanished into the darkness.