It felt like plunging his hand into an icy lake, and Alaric felt the cold of the other side seeping into his hand, a frozen touch of utter lifelessness and doom. He tried to snatch his hand back from Krell’s essence, but it was stuck fast. The cold slithered through his hand, oozing through the veins and meat of his wrist. Alaric knew that when it reached his heart, he would become no better than Krell.
“Master Alaric, sir!” shouted a loud manling voice. “Da says you got to get clear!”
Alaric knew he had only one chance to live and grimly freed his axe from the weakened plate of broken armour.
“Alaric the Mad, eh?” he said. “Maybe they’re right.”
He brought the axe down upon his wrist, the razored edge easily slicing through his flesh and bone. Alaric grunted in pain and kicked out on Krell’s armour, throwing himself as far away from the champion as he could get. He landed on a dead horse and rolled behind it as he heard a series of snapping hammers being pulled back.
“Left one’s out of alignment,” he grumbled, as the world filled with fire and noise.
Govannon pulled the leather firing cords, elated and terrified at the same time. He couldn’t see much of the battle, which was a relief to him, yet out of the shadows one shape was terrifyingly clear. The blood red form of Krell loomed in the darkness, a monster of nightmare come to hunt the living.
The first hammer struck the side of its brass cauldron, slowing enough to prevent the flint from sparking, and Govannon’s heart sank. The hulking champion of Nagash loomed over the war machine and Govannon cursed himself for a fool in wishing to be part of this fight. Krell would kill them all; nothing could stand against this horror from an ancient age.
He cursed his naive belief that he could repair a machine of the dwarfs, bitter that he could have spent these last weeks far more productively. Armour, swords, shields, axes, arrowheads—
The second hammer struck true, and puffs of smoke and fire frothed from the brass cauldrons at the back of the machine. The barrel erupted in a booming storm of shot and fire, another a few seconds later. Govannon’s ears rang with the concussive force of the detonation and his eyes watered with the brightness of the fire erupting in thundering booms from the barrels. Then the fourth barrel fired. As the hammer slammed down in the powder cauldron of the barrel he had repaired, Bysen lifted him away as the Thunder Bringer rocked back with ferocious recoil.
The barrel held firm and erupted with a blizzard of iron shot and, clear as day, Govannon saw the towering champion fall, his blood red armour ripped to shreds by the hurricane of fire and iron. Bones were shattered and torn away, the horned helmet little more than a ragged lump of pulverised iron hanging from a torn leather chin strap.
Part of Krell’s head was gone, the left side of his skull a shattered ruin. Blackness gaped within, yet the fire in Krell’s right eye blazed as the dwarfs fell upon his ruined body with sharp axes and vengeful hearts.
“It worked!” shouted Govannon. “In Ulric’s name, it worked!”
“Aye, da, it worked good!” said Bysen happily. “Big, big bang! Bysen’s ears hurt!”
Khaled al-Muntasir rode at a leisurely pace towards the north, watching as the army of the dead began to fully envelop these mortals who dared to stand against Nagash. He had ridden with all speed towards where the red-armoured cavalry had fought the black knights to a standstill, but halted upon feeling Markus’ death.
For a mortal, Markus was a tremendous swordsman, but enhanced with the power of undeath, he had been superlative—better even than Khaled perhaps. Yet he was dead, his soul consigned to oblivion by a mortal. The unease that had stirred in the vampire’s belly all night returned, stronger this time, and he cursed himself for succumbing to such a mortal sensation.
Yet no sooner had the painful empathic horror of Markus’ destruction passed than he felt Siggurd’s pain as weapons blessed in the name of the god of all living things pierced his immortal flesh. He winced with each wound, unused to such pain, and felt Siggurd’s anger as he was forced to flee. His two unbeatable warriors had been defeated, one destroyed, the other wounded almost to the point of dissolution.
Khaled al-Muntasir forced the anger at their incompetence aside and turned his attention to the rest of the battle, trying to regain his impregnable confidence. Thousands more dead warriors were advancing towards the city, pushing past the tiny islands of resistance that had met with some fleeting success. The battle line of mortals arrayed before the walls was fighting with admirable courage, but no hope of victory. They took backward step after backward step, and it was only a matter of time until they broke. Yet in the centre of the battle, cut off from the rest of his army, Sigmar drove for the low hillside where Nagash awaited him. Less than a hundred warriors still rode with the Emperor, yet they charged as though all of mankind were with them.
The vampire looked to the black form of Nagash, who stood with his enormous sword and twisted-snake staff in his hands. Black light flickered from the staff and blue fire wreathed the blade of his ancient sword.
“What are you waiting for?” hissed Khaled al-Muntasir. “Just kill him and be done with it.”
Yet even as he said the words, he knew Nagash could not kill Sigmar with his black sorcery while he wore the crown. Its incredible power would protect any wearer from virtually all forms of magic.
Khaled al-Muntasir watched as Nagash raised his staff and arcing bolts of lightning forked downwards, striking the gems inset along its scaled length. A storm of dark energy surrounded the necromancer and he slammed the staff into the ground. With senses beyond those of mortals, Khaled al-Muntasir watched the energy flow from the staff and into the hillside, spreading like the roots of a poisoned tree beneath the earth.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
These black roots sought the bleak places of the land, the abandoned graveyards long since paved over, the forgotten plague pits covered in quicklime and the sites of murder and mayhem. Drawn to these places like rats to a cesspit, Nagash’s sorcery infused the earth with the dark magic of undeath.
And the unquiet dead rose from their ancient graves to claw their way to the world above.
The earth rumbled with the sound of digging claws and moaning hunger, the churned grass rippling as the dead of centuries before rose to the surface. Hands long devoid of meat erupted from the earth and hauled flesh-less corpses back to the land that had consigned them to the ground. From the southern fork of the river to the city gates, a huge tear opened in the earth and a thousand or more dead warriors from the time before men had dwelled in cities and towns lurched unsteadily to their feet.
The Asoborns and the people of Reikdorf fleeing the onward march of the dead abandoned all pretence of an ordered retreat at the sight of this new horror. They ran for the city gates, terrified at being surrounded and cut off from their home. Even Freya, whose courage was unquestioned, fled along with her sons, Maedbh, Ulrike and Cuthwin. Daegal, with his newfound courage, formed a rearguard with the few surviving Queen’s Eagles, and if any of them thought it strange to be taking orders from one so young, none remarked upon it.
Within the walls of Reikdorf, the ground broke open as the dead climbed from below, pushing their way into the half-light as Nagash’s sorcery compelled their grisly remains to rise up and slay the living. Hundreds of dead things stalked the streets of the city, fighting anything warm and feasting on their flesh.
Alfgeir and Teon were trapped within a closing ring of undead, their retreat cut off by a newly emerged phalanx of the dead. They were unarmed, these dead men, but they swiftly picked up the weapons of those the Unberogen had already destroyed. Ragged, disorganised and freshly risen, they were formidable in their numbers if not their skill as fighters.
In the north, yet more dead arose, surrounding Govannon, Bysen and the dwarfs as they hacked at the indestructible corpse of Krell. Though their axes were sharper than any weapon forged by the hands of men, they could not easily undo armour worked in the fo
rges of smiths who gave praise to the bloody gods of the north.
The mortal army was surrounded and doomed.
Sigmar smashed aside a pair of skeletal warriors, champions in ancient, verdigris-stained armour of a thousand years ago. Hundreds of these undying creatures surrounded him, and yet still they pushed on. Ghal-Maraz flickered with silver fire and shimmering sparks flew from his every blow. Hundreds of the dead had fallen before him, but hundreds more still awaited destruction.
Beside him, Wolfgart hacked through the dead with great sweeps of his sword, each blow weaker than the last as his strength grew less and less. Where Ghal-Maraz imparted a measure of its power to Sigmar, Wolfgart enjoyed no such boon. Wenyld fought mechanically, slumped low over his saddle, though Sigmar’s banner still flew above the heroic warriors who rode with him.
Ghal-Maraz swept out to either side, breaking the dead warriors apart with brutal cracks of shattered bone. As the last ranks of the dead were crushed beneath their horses’ hooves, Sigmar’s Unberogen, fifty warriors in total, rode onto the clear ground before the low hillside where Nagash awaited them. Its base was encircled by tall warriors in heavy hauberks of black iron, who carried long halberds with icy blades. A host of swirling spirits gathered in the air above the necromancer, and the darkness around him was total. Sigmar had no idea how fared the rest of his army, but knew that unless he could end this now, it would be slaughtered by morning’s light.
A trail of broken bodies littered the ground behind them, and though thousands of the dead were within reach, none turned towards them, as though their presence was an irrelevance.
“Almost there,” said Wolfgart, twisting in his saddle to make sure no more of the dead were moving to attack them.
“Aye,” agreed Sigmar. “One more push and I’ll have him right where I want him.”
Wolfgart gave him a sidelong look and then burst out laughing.
“Damn me, Sigmar,” he said. “I’m tired worse than I was at Black Fire, and that’s saying something, but you can still make me smile.”
Sigmar nodded, feeling the weight of the crown at his brow grow heavier with every step his horse took towards the hillside. He felt its anger at him surge, a fury that a mere mortal dared to wield it and not partake of its power. Its maker was at hand, and it renewed its assault on his mind, battering him with dreams of pleasure, nightmares of failure and temptations of wealth, power and godhood.
None could reach Sigmar, for he had reached that place where all thoughts of self were extinguished. All that was left to him now was service to his people, and not even death could keep him from that duty. Piece by piece, Sigmar had shed all his earthly desires, putting them aside for the greater good of the Empire.
Nagash’s crown had nothing left with which to tempt or intimidate him, for his entire being was dedicated to one ideal. That was something no necromancer could ever understand, the dedication of the self to a higher purpose, where the one man could make the difference between life and death, success or failure.
In this world, at this time, Sigmar was that man. He had believed that from the day he had walked amongst the tombs of his ancestors on his Dooming Day, but had known it when he passed through the fire of Ulric unharmed.
Everything he had done had driven him to this moment, and he knew this foe was his to face alone. Sigmar swung his leg over his saddle and dropped to the earth as a sudden stillness and silence spread outwards from the hillside. Though battle still raged beyond, Sigmar could hear nothing beyond his own laboured breathing and the distant howling of wolves.
He walked over to Wenyld and lifted his hand towards the red and gold banner.
“Time to pass it on, my friend,” said Sigmar.
Wenyld nodded, too weak from blood loss to resist as Sigmar took the banner pole from his blooded grip.
“What in Ulric’s name are you doing?” demanded Wolfgart, walking his horse alongside him and dismounting. “Get back on your horse, you fool!”
“No,” said Sigmar. “I’m going to end this now.”
“What? You’re just going to walk up to the bloody necromancer on foot?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” replied Sigmar, turning and making his way towards the hillside. “And don’t follow me. This is something I need to do alone.”
“Why, for the love of the gods? Tell me that at least.”
Sigmar said, “Because this is how it has to be. You know how it goes. At the end of all the sagas, the hero always stands alone or else he’s not a hero.”
“Damn the sagas,” swore Wolfgart. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Yes you are,” said Sigmar as the ancient warriors at the base of the hill parted to allow him passage. “Wenyld needs you.”
Wolfgart turned and caught Wenyld as he fell from his saddle. Once again the howl of wolves sounded from over forested hills and shadowed valleys, carried to Reikdorf by cold northern winds. As Wolfgart lowered the dying Wenyld to the ground, Sigmar turned and climbed the hill towards Nagash, his banner in one hand, Ghal-Maraz in the other.
He heard Wolfgart shouting his name, but didn’t dare look back.
—
The End of All Things
Every step was a battle, each yard he drew nearer to the necromancer a struggle against his mortal inclination to flee this abomination. The summit of the hill was wreathed in spirits in black, ghostly revenants of lost souls doomed to attend upon Nagash from now until the end of all things. Sigmar felt the dead light of Nagash roam across his body, learning in a heartbeat how he had grown and was now edging his way to the grave.
A black miasma swirled around the base of the hill, isolating him from the mortal world beyond, and Sigmar felt his flesh recoil from the vile presence of the immortal necromancer. His armour creaked in the frozen air and webs of frost spread across his breastplate and shoulder guards. Ghal-Maraz was his only warmth, the language beaten into its haft by master runesmiths glowing with fierce light beneath his grip. Sigmar held tight to its warmth, for the crown at his brow felt like an ever-tightening fist of ice.
Though it could not touch him, the crown’s assault on his mind was undiminished, taunting him for the sake of spite and hatred. Nagash’s form seemed to stretch up into the darkness as Sigmar drew near, the necromancer’s body growing larger and more imposing as though empowered by the very nearness of his crown.
Armoured in eldritch plates of enchanted black iron, Nagash was easily twice the height of Sigmar. His bones were suffused with a venomous green light, every crack and imperfection in his armour lambent with an internal fire that came from ancient magic woven from the myriad winds blowing from the far north. His staff was a slender length of shimmering darkness, like entwined snakes, and his sword was at least as tall as Sigmar. Cold blue flames licked along its length and it radiated a chill that touched Sigmar deep in his bones.
Nagash stared down at him, and Sigmar fought against that dread gaze, feeling his limbs fill with ice water and lead. Twin orbs of deathly green fire stared at Sigmar, eyes that had seen the world before men had walked the lands he now ruled. Thousands of years separated them, an ocean of time that Sigmar found impossible to comprehend. He could no more imagine the world of such long ago days as he could imagine the Empire in thousands of years to come.
I will show you…
The voice was like continents colliding, a deathly cadence that owed nothing to an actual voice. It was the sound of death itself. Sigmar staggered as he saw a land of forests and mountains, its people divided and the world in turmoil. Blood stained every rock, and the glint of iron weapons was everywhere. Armies of such size as to defy imagination marched all across this land, destroying everything in their path without mercy.
Bodies lay gutted by the roadside, men, women and children. Still-living captives were bound to stakes and left for the animals to devour. Sigmar saw slaughter and blood everywhere, hacked up corpses and bodies burned alive in their homes. He wept to see such destructi
on visited upon his people and his anger built as he sought the source of this debauchery. His gaze fell upon an army marching to a city at the confluence of many rivers. Colourful banners fluttered overhead, and the soldiers were clad in equally gaudy uniforms.
They marched in disciplined ranks, singing songs of martial pride, and Sigmar wept to see that this was no army of monsters, beasts of the undead. These were men. Worse, they were men of the Empire.
Look closer…
Though he knew it was what Nagash wanted, Sigmar could not help himself. He saw the army’s banners were decorated with skulls and laurels, crossed spears and spread-winged eagles. And upon all of them were stitched scrolls, each bearing a single word.
Sigmar.
These were warriors who fought in his name. They carried weapons of unusual design, wooden staves like the thunder bows of the dwarfs, and wagons bearing unfamiliar war machines drew up the rear of the marching column. Two metal behemoths followed the supply wagons, lumbering contraptions on iron-rimmed wheels that belched steam and black smoke from square fireboxes at their rear.
This is the world you have created. This is blood that will be spilled in your name. Is it not better to leave this world and let the race of man fall into decline? Your species resurgent is one that lives only for destruction and uncertainty. It knows no other way. The dead do not squabble as this land’s rulers do. The dead do not fight one another. The dead have no desires, no petty jealousies or ambitions. A world of the dead is a world at peace…
Sigmar fought against the necromancer’s words, understanding that their battle would be fought in the realm of the spirit as well as that of the flesh. He closed his eyes, willing this vision away, knowing that Nagash would seek to defeat him with lies cloaked in truths.
03 - God King Page 36
