Now Dostov hung from a stake on the northern gatehouse, beside what was left of the Grand Master of the Knights of the White Wolf, Vilitreska the so-called Lord of the Flux, Fregnus the Pallid, and the Pox-Knight.
Canto hauled back on his mount’s reins, forcing it to stop as a pack of baying hounds loped across the street ahead. Through the smoke he thought he saw manlike shapes moving amongst them, and heard human voices mingled with the howling. Nearby, a nest of writhing tentacles and pulsing flesh that had once been a carriage house emitted a soft, wheezing moan, as if in mockery of the mortal wreckage Canto dragged behind him.
‘Quiet, Ghular,’ Canto said, as he twisted about in his saddle. ‘Unless you want me to take your other hand.’ The bedraggled shape shivered and fell silent. How the mighty have fallen, Canto thought. Ghular Festerhand, the Ravager of Loren, the King of Flies, and the Duke of Rot, was mighty indeed. Or had been, before Canto had taken off the blighted limb from which he had taken his sobriquet.
‘You have only yourself to blame for this, you know,’ he said, turning away. ‘You saw what happened to the others, didn’t you? The Pox-Knight? Cringus of the Thirty-Seventh Configuration? The Copper Princess? Do those names ring a bell, perchance? No? Of course not. Because if they did, you certainly wouldn’t have planned to do what you were planning to do.’ Canto shook his head. ‘I understand the temptation, believe me. But did you really think the Everchosen wouldn’t step on you like the disgusting maggot you so resemble?’
Canto kicked his steed into motion and rode on without waiting for an answer. The streets squirmed beneath the hooves of his horse, and ahead of him, a giant made from broken stones, splintered beams and masticated corpses staggered drunkenly across the Ulricsmund, roaring unintelligibly. Whole sections of the city had become distorted reflections of their former glory, transmogrified into screaming sculptures of living fire or revolving facets of impossible design and unknowable angles. Those that were left untouched by the warping power of Chaos had been claimed by petty chieftains or muttering cults, made over into personal lairs and fanes.
Granted, there weren’t as many of the latter as there had been in the weeks following the city’s capture. Archaon had seen to that, dispatching the detestable Curseling south to lay siege to Averheim. He’d sent the most enthusiastic and troublesome with the two-headed sorcerer, and as a result the city had quieted down nicely. For a time at least.
But then, the Curseling had gone and ruined everything. By the time Archaon had marched on Averheim, Vilitch had vanished. He wasn’t especially missed, but his ineptitude had enabled the Emperor to escape into the mountains. Archaon had gone into a rage – denied the lives of both Valten and the Emperor, he’d butchered threescore of his lieutenants and tossed their skulls to the hounds. Canto had avoided that particular fate only by dint of luck; in the aftermath of the siege of Averheim, several plotters had chosen to take advantage of Archaon’s fury to make their moves.
Canto had put himself between the Everchosen and the blades of his enemies. He had done so without thinking, and now reaped the rewards. He looked back at Festerhand. Some rewards are better than others, he thought morosely.
Archaon had taken Averheim as a message from the gods. He had returned to Middenheim, taking only such forces as were necessary. The rest, mostly worshippers of Khorne, he’d sent haring off to chase down the surviving enemy. Averheim had been left to the beasts. Some milky-eyed brute named Moonclaw ruled there now, the last Canto had heard of it. Now, Archaon sat brooding on his throne, conferring only with daemons, and marshalling his forces for… something.
And oversaw the excavation, of course. Mustn’t forget that, must we? Canto thought, without amusement. Indeed, how could one forget a steadily growing chasm being gouged into the very heart of the Fauschlag by hundreds of slaves, both human and otherwise? At the very least, the massive heaps of spoil and slag which surrounded the ever widening scar were a constant reminder. Gangs of skaven scuttled past, keeping to the shadows. They lurked amongst the spoil and smoke, their chittering voices accompanying the screams of slaves and the hum of warpstone-powered devices.
Archaon had been quite put out with the skaven for a time, despite the alliance between his forces and those of the so-called ‘under-empire’. He had become enraged when the ratmen had interfered in his duel with the Herald of Sigmar, and he had personally hunted down a number of the creatures in order to make them answer for their effrontery, including the creature which had first proposed the alliance – a whining, sneaky wretch of a rat called Thanquol. Now their bodies were displayed with the rest, and those that survived had quickly made themselves useful as overseers, foraging parties and slave labour.
When he reached the Temple of Ulric, Canto did not stop, but let his horse climb the steps. Besides being able to curse in four languages, the animal was quite adept at scaling stairs. That it could do both never failed to impress Canto. As it climbed, he gazed east, towards the excavation where it abutted the temple. Day and night, the Ulricsmund rang with the sounds of it, and he fancied his ears would never be free of it.
He rode past toppled statues of the wolf-god, and into the temple proper. The echo of his horse’s hooves as he rode through the rotunda sounded strange, and slightly distorted. All around him was madness: busts and statues had been thrown down, or carved into hideous new shapes. Faces writhed and moaned along the walls. The vaulted ceiling had been hung with thick iron chains, from which dangled hooks and blades. On the latter were spitted the bodies of priests. All were present – the servants of Sigmar, Ulric, Shallya and more besides. Most were dead. Some were not.
Archaon was waiting for him, as ever, at the centre of his chosen throne room. The Everchosen had claimed the dais from which the Flame of Ulric had once burned as his own, and had placed his throne there. The throne was a monstrous construction, composed of brass and black iron, covered with stretched skin and skulls. Ghal Maraz sat at its apex, clasped in brass claws. A heavy shadow, black and stinking of hot iron, crouched behind Archaon’s throne. It was massive, larger than any ogre or troll. As Canto approached, the shadow straightened with a sound like a bellows and great wings unfurled. He felt a wash of heat, as if from a smokeless fire.
He knew the daemon’s name, though he wished that he did not. Ka’Bandha, the Skull-Smasher. Ka’Bandha, the right hand of the Blood God himself. Eyes like forge-fires gazed at him, burning him inside out. The air around the bloodthirster shimmered, as if the creature’s very presence were a wound in reality. It eyed him with interest, as if sizing him up for a challenge. Canto ducked his head and tried to make himself smaller. Even Archaon himself would have been hard-pressed to survive an encounter with Ka’Bandha. Canto would have no chance at all. He kept his gaze averted, and relaxed slightly as he felt the daemon’s disappointment wash over him. No fun for you here, beast, he thought.
The Swords of Chaos lined the way to the throne. Even now, having fought beside the black-armoured sentinels more than once, Canto could still feel the palpable menace which radiated from them. He hauled back on the reins and brought his disagreeable mount to a halt amidst a flurry of gutter-Estalian.
Canto waited, counting the moments. When Archaon did not stir, Canto cleared his throat and said, ‘I come bearing gifts, my lord. As you requested.’ He reached behind him and cut the straps that held Festerhand tied to his saddle. The champion, or what was left of him, flopped to the floor with a groan. His armour hung in ragged tatters from his maggot-like body, and his pale flesh was streaked with blood and bruises. He cradled the stump of his wrist to his sunken chest. Ka’Bandha chuckled. The sound was like scalding water hissing over stones.
Archaon looked up. He stared at the broken shape of the traitor for long moments, and then said, ‘His hand?’
Canto reached into his saddlebag and produced a dripping sack. Something moved unpleasantly within. ‘I thought it best to disarm him,’ he said. He tossed th
e sack down.
Archaon didn’t laugh. He rarely laughed. He pushed himself up, off his throne, and strode down from the dais, after gesturing for the bloodthirster to remain where it was. He stepped over the sack as if he hadn’t seen it, and made his way to Ghular’s side. He looked down at the broken creature. ‘Grandfather Nurgle grows impatient. How many of his champions has he thrown in my path of late?’ He looked at Ka’Bandha as he spoke.
‘You do them honour, to call them champions,’ the bloodthirster growled. Canto heard the clatter of brass chains as the shadowy mass moved about behind the throne. ‘They are as blossoms, pruned from his garden, and as easily crushed.’
‘Yes,’ Archaon said. ‘Fewer of them than the Schemer or the Prince of Pleasure, to be sure, but still… a not inconsiderable number. Is it vengeance for the Glottkin? Or something else?’ The bloodthirster subsided into silence.
Canto knew Archaon wasn’t expecting an answer. He followed Ka’Bandha’s example and kept silent. It was always the same; Archaon spoke more to hear himself speak, than because he wanted replies. The Everchosen sank to his haunches with a creak of metal, and examined Canto’s prisoner. ‘Did he fight hard?’ he asked.
That he expected an answer to, Canto knew. ‘No harder than the others,’ he said. ‘I waited until he was looking the other way, and then cut his hand off. After that, he didn’t have much fight in him.’
Ka’Bandha made a sound like a dog choking on a bone. The heat grew intolerable, and Canto forced himself to look only at Archaon. The bloodthirster had a short temper, and it was made even shorter by such admissions. Simple murder was beneath the god of slaughter, apparently. ‘Coward,’ the beast gurgled, eyes shining like beacon fires.
Archaon stood. ‘You are getting a reputation, Unsworn. They say you are my executioner.’ Ka’Bandha made another disapproving noise, but Archaon ignored the creature.
‘I am but your humble servant, my lord,’ Canto said, bowing his head.
‘Then come with me, O humble servant. I wish to look upon my great work, and see how it progresses,’ Archaon said. Ka’Bandha rose to its full height, as if it intended to follow the Everchosen, but settled back at a gesture from Archaon.
Canto hesitated, watching the daemon warily, then slid out of the saddle and hurried after the Everchosen as the latter strode deeper into the temple. He could feel Ka’Bandha’s eyes on him the entire way.
‘What about the Festerhand?’ he asked, as he caught up with Archaon. They were descending into the chill depths of the Fauschlag. Those who knew such things said that the skaven had bought their survival with a treasure that they had located deep in the mountain’s guts, somewhere beneath the temple. And that treasure was the reason for the great excavation, as Archaon employed hundreds of slaves and gangs of sorcerers and daemons both in the endeavour, carving a path down through the heart of the mountain. Canto knew the truth of it, and knew that it was not a treasure, but something infinitely worse.
‘What about him?’ Archaon said. ‘If he survives until I return, then I will kill him – or spare him, as the mood takes me. If he doesn’t, the point is moot.’
‘As you say, my lord,’ Canto said obsequiously. He wondered what would get the Festerhand first… his wounds, or Ka’Bandha. Khorne had less use for beaten champions than he did for murderers.
Archaon stopped. Canto stumbled to a halt, just barely avoiding slamming into the Everchosen. Archaon turned. ‘Do you disagree?’ he asked. Canto hesitated. Archaon cocked his head. ‘Do you know why I elevated you, Unsworn?’
A thousand witticisms sprang to mind and immediately turned to ash on Canto’s lips. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, my lord,’ he said.
‘I elevated you because I am not your lord,’ Archaon said softly. ‘Not really. You are a scavenger, a jackal, haunting the edges of eternity. You owe no fealty to any god or warlord. Like a thousand others, you are a man apart, with no loyalty or code to bind your words or mark your path. You do not seek pain, pleasure, pestilence or power. You seek only to survive. Of all the men and women who ride beneath my banners, you and your ilk are the most human. The most flawed, the weakest. But also the strongest.’ Archaon turned away and continued walking. Canto followed.
Archaon continued talking. ‘The followers of the gods burn bright, but burn swiftly. In every war, they die first, and at the pleasure of the gods. But your kind survives. You cling to this world like a barnacle, holding tight to what you once were, though it profits you nothing. Why did you never seek out the favour of the gods, Unsworn?’
You’ve already asked me that. You ask me that every day, Canto thought. What he said was, ‘Fear, my lord. I feared losing myself.’ It was the same answer he always gave, but it never seemed to satisfy Archaon. Then, few things did. The Three-Eyed King seethed with a cosmic frustration, as if the very air scraped his nerves raw.
‘And would that be so bad?’ Archaon asked. Canto looked at him. It was the first time Archaon had asked that. They had come to a massive cavern, its walls marked by skaven graffiti and piles of rotting bodies heaped in the corners. Chittering, red-eyed rats scattered as Archaon and Canto stepped into the eerie light cast by the iron and brass braziers set about the circumference of the cavern.
Before Canto could answer Archaon’s question, a guttural voice bellowed a challenge. A trio of ogres, their flesh marked by tattoos of ownership and allegiance, and their arms and armour bearing all of the hallmarks of the daemonsmiths of Zharr Naggrund, stepped into view out of the shadows. The ogres bore heavy swords, and horned helmets that obscured their brutish features. Archaon raised his hand, and the ogres sank to their knees with much grunting and grumbling.
Archaon led Canto past the brutes, and into the gloomy chamber beyond the cavern. Something horrible and flickering occupied the bulk of the chamber – a black, glistening globe supported between two golden hemispheres. The globe was a blotch of shimmering darkness which seemed to draw all sources of light towards it. Canto staggered, struck, as always, by the sheer wrongness of the thing.
He had seen it more than once, but it never failed to cause his mind and what was left of his soul to tremble and cringe. He could hear a vast roaring of innumerable voices, and a thinner, sharper sound, like the scraping of rats behind the walls of the world.
Even worse, he knew it was but the merest tip of whatever monstrous eidolon was buried beneath the Fauschlag. Gangs of slaves worked day and night to uncover it, when Archaon’s pet sorcerers weren’t studying it, trying to unlock its power. Both slaves and sorcerers died in great numbers, their bodies left to rot at the bottom of the pit from which the thing rose. Soon they would have it fully uncovered, and they would pry it free of the mountain, like a pearl from an oyster.
Archaon moved across the chamber towards the dark globe, and the coven of robed cultists who were gathered about it. The cultists were muttering and invoking for all that they were worth. Which, Canto knew, wasn’t much. The masked fools were little more than attendants. One of them, obviously the leader if one went by his golden mask, hurried towards Archaon, trying to run and bow at the same time.
‘Can we proceed?’ Archaon said, not looking at the coven leader.
‘It stirs to life even now, mighty Archaon,’ the man whimpered. He flung out a trembling hand. ‘See how it shines, with the radiance of a thousand unseen suns. We have only uncovered the barest tip, and already it awakens.’
‘Can we proceed?’ Archaon asked again. There was a hint of menace in his voice.
The coven leader jerked upright in a flare of robes. ‘If the gods will it,’ he said. Archaon was silent. The man twitched and added, ‘An offering of souls will be needed.’
‘Then make it,’ Archaon rumbled.
‘My lord?’
‘The slaves,’ Canto interjected, unable to bear the coven leader’s stupidity. ‘Start feeding it the slaves.’ He moved closer to Archaon.<
br />
‘You never answered my question,’ Archaon said softly, after a moment of silence. ‘Would it be so bad, to lose yourself?’
Canto hesitated, and then said, ‘Yes. Who I am, who I was, is the only thing I have left. To surrender it is to lose everything I fought for in the first place.’
‘You value the life you had, then?’ Archaon said. ‘You cling to the past, afraid to face the future.’ He swept out a hand towards the shimmering black globe. ‘See, Unsworn, the beautiful thing which awaits all of us. It is not terrifying. It is life, and change, and growth. It is the life which springs from death. This world is dead, but a new one is growing here.’
‘Mushrooms from a corpse,’ Canto said.
Archaon lowered his hand. ‘If you like. Maybe the world to come will be simpler, at that. Less burdened by the weight of history and failure. What I do know is that it will be stronger than this husk of a world we reside in now. There will be no weakness, no false morality or burdensome piety to chain men. The gods will sweep aside the old, and unmake the false foundations upon which the lie of this world stands.’
‘And that will be better, will it?’ Canto asked, without thinking.
‘Yes.’
‘For whom?’ he asked. Archaon looked at him. Canto waited, then, when no punishing strike came, he continued. ‘I never wanted this burden. It just came on me. I’m only a man,’ he said softly. He looked at his hand, encased in black iron for gods alone knew how many centuries. ‘I’ve only ever been a man. A wicked, evil man, who has done wicked, evil things. But I was never a monster. Never that.’
Archaon chuckled. ‘And what would you be now, Unsworn? Man or monster?’
‘I would be true to myself,’ Canto said, though not without hesitation.
‘There was one other who spoke like that,’ Archaon said. ‘His name was Mortkin. They called him the Black-Iron Reaver, and he carved his saga on the hearts of the gods themselves.’ He glanced at Canto. ‘He could have been the one standing here, once upon a time.’
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 17
