The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘And you never will, my lord,’ Canto said. ‘He was one of Vilitch’s disciples, and was trying to rouse the tribes occupying the Sudgarten District. I thought it prudent to – ah – head that off at the pass, as it were.’ He gave the helmet a kick.

  ‘Did he die well?’

  ‘I’m not entirely certain. A flock of purple ravens burst out of his armour after I cut his head off. They flew off. I think that means I won.’ He looked up at Archaon. ‘The army grows restless, my lord.’

  ‘The army eats itself, Unsworn,’ Archaon corrected. ‘Like a fire, swelling to fill a room and snuffing itself in the process. That is the nature of Chaos. Like the serpent eating its own tail, it feeds on itself, until there is nothing left to devour.’ Archaon stroked the hammer gingerly, as if afraid it might bite him. ‘And then, it begins again.’ He shoved the hammer from his lap. It struck the dais and tumbled down the stairs. Daemons scrambled out of its path with shrieks and yowls. Canto stepped back as the hammer smashed into the floor at the foot of the steps. ‘It always begins again,’ Archaon said.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Canto said carefully, bowing his head.

  When he looked up, Archaon was studying him. ‘Have I thanked you yet, Unsworn? While I sit here, in my seclusion, you wield sword and shield in my defence. You fight battles so that I do not have to. Do you begrudge me, my executioner?’

  Canto did not meet Archaon’s gaze. He could feel its weight on his soul, and knew that his answer might determine his survival. Archaon had dispensed with most of his advisors and confidants in the days following the fall of Averheim. The lands of men were fallen, or of little consequence. The lands of the elves had sunk beneath the sea, and the dwarfs had retreated into the roots of the earth. The sour redoubt of Sylvania was ringed about by armies of beasts and daemons and skaven, and its crushing was of minor importance with Nagash’s departure. There were no enemies left that Canto could see, save Archaon’s own lieutenants.

  Chaos feeds on itself, Canto thought. He lifted his head. ‘I do not, my lord. I am content with my lot.’ As he spoke, he hoped Archaon couldn’t see that he was lying.

  In truth, Canto had been preparing to leave for days. Every time he thought he might slip out of the gates and ride hell for leather for Araby or Cathay, some champion or chieftain got it into their head to cause trouble. If it wasn’t a schemer like Nalac the Eschaton, it was a brute like Gorgomir Bloodeye, being spurred on by a suspiciously pale courtesan. Finding a vampire amongst the daemon-worshippers wasn’t that surprising. There was at least one other in the city, to Canto’s knowledge.

  And a frightening creature she is, he thought. The Countess kept to herself, for the most part, and stayed within the plague gardens that had sprung up in what had been the merchant district. They said that she spent her days humming and singing to herself. On a whim, Sigvald the Magnificent had tried to hack his way into the gardens only to be put to flight, his tail between his legs.

  ‘I do not remember what contentment feels like,’ Archaon said. ‘Maybe I never knew.’

  Before Canto could even attempt to formulate an answer to that, the heavy oaken doors of the temple were smashed open. The sound of splintering wood filled the rotunda, silencing all else. Then, a thunderous voice boomed, ‘You mock me!’

  The temple shuddered as a heavy form entered Archaon’s throne room, stinking of fire and blood. Ka’Bandha strode through the swirling daemonettes, scattering the handmaidens of Slaanesh as it strode towards the throne. One of the Swords of Chaos was caught a glancing blow from Ka’Bandha’s axe, and fell. Before the knight could get to his feet, the bloodthirster sneered, raised one great hoof, and brought it down on the warrior’s helm, pulping it. As if the death of one of their own had been a signal, the Swords of Chaos swept into motion. As one, they drew their swords and turned towards the daemon.

  Canto took up his position on the dais, his own blade drawn. He doubted if he would last much longer than any of the others but there was no place to run that the daemon couldn’t catch him, if it so desired. That was what he told himself, at any rate. Why else would he put himself between Archaon and the daemon? Better to stand with the Everchosen than perish. There was no telling what had driven the beast into a rage. The servants of Khorne longed for battle the way other beings desired food.

  Archaon said nothing as the daemon thundered forwards. He merely raised his fist, and, in eerie rhythm, the Swords sheathed their weapons and retreated to the chamber’s perimeter. Canto hesitated, but then sheathed his own blade. There was no sense in making himself a target, after all.

  ‘You forget yourself, daemon,’ Archaon intoned as he slowly rose from his throne. ‘I am the Everchosen, and I am the edge of Khorne’s axe on this world. Would you approach his throne in so rash a manner?’ His words echoed through the rotunda, and a ripple of daemonic titters followed in its wake as the watching daemons twitched in glee to see Ka’Bandha spoken to in such a manner. There was no love lost between the beasts, even here, united beneath Archaon’s standard. They were worse than men, in some ways. ‘Remember, daemon. In this world, you serve at my whim.’

  ‘You are but a mortal speck,’ Ka’Bandha snarled. ‘I serve you only so long as you lead us to slaughter. But there is no slaughter here, Everchosen. Where is the ocean of blood we were promised? Where are the skulls you have tithed to the Lord of Carnage? I see nothing before me but the dried leavings of crows and jackals.’

  The bloodthirster straightened, wings unfurling. A wash of heat billowed outwards, rippling from the daemon’s form and filling the rotunda. The stones at Ka’Bandha’s feet blackened and grew soft from that heat, and the chains dangling above its hunched shoulders turned white hot and dripped to the floor, link by link. ‘You mock me, king of filth. You mock Ka’Bandha, and make him an overseer for puling slaves,’ Ka’Bandha roared out, shaking the chamber to its foundations. The daemon smashed the flat of its axe against the brass cuirass which clad its hairy torso. The sound of metal on metal echoed through the temple and lesser daemons fled the sound of it, their paws pressed to their ears.

  ‘Those slaves toil and die in the cause of the Four-Who-Are-All. What they uncover, what they feed with their broken bodies and blistered souls, will, when it awakes, spill more blood than all of the axes ever forged. But it must be excavated, and it must be fed.’ Archaon paused. He cocked his head. ‘Unless the great Ka’Bandha fancies excavating it himself.’

  The bloodthirster lifted its axe and drove it into the ground, splitting stone and rocking the chamber. ‘I will not be mocked,’ the creature roared, as it wrenched its axe free of the floor and lashed out, splitting one of the chamber’s support pillars in two.

  Stone and dust cascaded down as part of the ceiling collapsed. Canto ducked aside as a chunk of stone smashed into the dais. Archaon didn’t so much as twitch, even as Ka’Bandha advanced on the throne. ‘No. I see that,’ Archaon said, as Ka’Bandha loomed over him. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He looked up at the daemon. Their faces were only bare inches apart. ‘What is it you wish, then?’ he asked quietly. ‘Would you have me dispense with you, as I dispensed with the Fateweaver?’

  Canto shivered. The two-headed daemon had grown agitated in the aftermath of the Emperor’s escape from Averheim. It was a given that the Fateweaver had been working to undermine Archaon; treachery was second nature to the servants of the Changer of Ways. When the beast had openly challenged Archaon, demanding that he pursue the Emperor into the Grey Mountains, a confrontation which had been simmering for weeks occurred in the blink of an eye. There had been no speeches, no grand gestures. Merely a sword, flashing in the dark, and the sound of two monstrous heads falling to the floor. What was left had been fed to the thing in the depths of the Fauschlag.

  Ka’Bandha was silent. For a moment, Canto wondered whether it might attempt to strike Archaon down. Part of him hoped it would try. Part of him hoped it would succeed
. The creature glared down at Archaon, axe half-raised. Archaon waited. When no blow was forthcoming, he said, ‘I am fulfilling your lord’s wishes, Ka’Bandha. If you doubt that, then strike me down.’ He spread his arms. ‘Let us see whether Khorne rewards you… or punishes you.’

  The bloodthirster snarled and took a step back. ‘Blood must flow,’ the daemon snapped. ‘There is no blood here, Everchosen. Let the servants of lesser gods guard slaves. I would have battle.’

  ‘There has been battle aplenty. Enough to glut even the King of Murder himself. The world drowns in blood, mighty Ka’Bandha. Only a single lone island resists the tide, and it matters little, isolated as it is.’ Archaon lowered his arms.

  There was something about his voice, his manner, which Canto found confusing. Archaon wasn’t trying to calm the beast – no, he was trying to aggravate it. It wasn’t just mockery. What are you up to? he thought.

  ‘The Emperor escaped you,’ Ka’Bandha growled.

  Archaon shook his head. ‘And so? What is a ruler with no land to rule? And what power he stole from the heavens, I stripped from him with my own two hands. His power, temporal or otherwise, is gone. He is broken, his armies scattered, his land… ash. The lie of him has been exposed to the world, as I swore to do. And now I shall fulfil my oath to our masters, Ka’Bandha. I shall crack the world open, so that they might feast on it at last. What is the Emperor, compared to that?’

  Says the man who has spent weeks brooding because Karl Franz slipped through his fingers at Averheim, Canto thought. His eyes were drawn to Ghal Maraz, where it sat at the bottom of the steps. Even Ka’Bandha avoided it, and cast occasional wary glances at the weapon. Archaon was up to something – but what?

  ‘It is a mistake to think him defeated,’ Ka’Bandha rumbled. ‘His skull belongs to Khorne.’

  ‘Then, by all means… go collect it,’ Archaon said, gesturing towards the doors to the temple. ‘Karl Franz’s life is yours. I give it to you freely, and without stipulation, save one.’ He held up a hand, as Ka’Bandha growled. ‘Let Khorne have his skull, by all means. But his skin is mine. Promise me this one small gesture, and I shall release you from my service, so that you might hunt your prey wherever he seeks to hide.’

  The bloodthirster snorted. ‘Aye, so it shall be. I shall collect skin and skull both. I shall drown the trees in blood, and bury the mountains in offal.’ The creature threw back its head and roared in satisfaction. ‘Let the Blood Hunt ride once more, before the end of everything!’ The daemon spun on its heel and stormed from the chamber, smashing aside another pillar in its exuberance.

  ‘Well, that’s one way of handling it,’ Canto said, as the dust cleared.

  Archaon descended the steps, and sank down on the bottom one. He looked down at Ghal Maraz. He reached out, and traced the intricate pattern of runes which covered the hammer. ‘Time… fractures, Unsworn. A thousand-thousand possibilities flare bright, and burn out before my eyes with every moment. But there are fewer and fewer of them with every passing hour. Our path grows narrow and thorny, and I am forced to play a game of death and deceit to ensure the proper outcome.’

  The Everchosen picked up the hammer and held it out, as if weighing it. ‘The hours grow short, and the shadows long. I would have vengeance, not because I desire it, but because it must take place, else what was it all for?’

  Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Archaon was not looking at him. One blow, and he would be free. Or dead, he thought, as he lowered his hand. ‘I do not know, my lord.’

  ‘The beast will not succeed.’ Archaon touched the shimmering gemstone set into his helm. ‘I have seen its failure, spread across the skein of possibilities. The only question is one of time. When will the pieces fall? And where?’ He spun Ghal Maraz gently in his grip. ‘It must be here. There is a moment here, waiting to be born. It has weight, and draws every other moment towards it, like a stone drawing the man whose leg it is tied to down into the dark water. It will happen in Middenheim.’ He glanced at Canto. ‘The end must justify the means. The world is a lie, and the truth must out.’ Archaon rose to his feet, Ghal Maraz in hand. ‘I cannot rest until that is done, Unsworn. Even if I must defy the gods themselves, I will have the truth.’ He climbed the steps slowly, the hammer dangling from his grip.

  Canto watched the Everchosen sink back onto his throne, and thought of Araby.

  TEN

  The Silvale Glade, Athel Loren

  Duke Jerrod drove his blade down into the hairy back of the slavering beastman, severing the creature’s spine. He wrenched the blade free and twisted in his saddle, lopping off the arm of another. The creature howled and staggered back, clutching at itself. His stallion whinnied and lashed out, killing the creature with a single blow from its hoof.

  The beasts were wild with madness. The bloodlust so common to the minotaurs had spread to every gor and ungor loping beneath the trees. For days they had hurled themselves into death on the spear points and sword blades of the elves, and for every thousand that perished, another thousand prowled forth, slavering and berserk. For the most part the bulk of the enemy were held at bay by the elves, but some small groups had slipped through the wall of spears and shields to ravage behind the static positions. It was these isolated fragments of the horde that the Incarnates had roused themselves to destroy.

  The elves, led by the Dragon-Prince, Imrik, were on the verge of exhaustion. But to give in, to surrender even a single glade, was to threaten the safety of the King’s Glade. And that was too steep a price for even an hour’s respite. But such was the fury of this latest onslaught, that even the Incarnates had been stirred from their interminable debate.

  Or so it seemed to Jerrod, at least. Endless hours of argument, back and forth, accomplishing nothing tangible save to put folk who should be allies at each other’s throats. It seemed inconceivable to him that such a thing was possible, that even now men and women broke and shattered beneath the weight of their own hubris.

  Then, not everyone had the Lady to guide them onto the proper path as he and his knights did. Around him, the Companions of Quenelles fought with courage and honour, lances and swords red with the blood of abominations. He murmured a silent prayer as an axe hacked away one of the frayed strips of silk which decorated the crown of his helmet, and nudged his horse around. The flat of his shield caught the minotaur on the side of the head, knocking it aside. It stumbled, and then fell, as a spear erupted from its side. The beast collapsed onto all fours. Its hide bristled with arrows, and despite the spear in its side, it tried to struggle to its feet. An armoured boot caught it in the head, shoving it back down.

  Wendel Volker caught the haft of the spear and jerked it free, before plunging it down through the minotaur’s bulging, bloodshot eye. The Reiksguard looked up at Jerrod and smiled. It was a fierce, unnatural expression, lacking in humour. ‘Much better than listening to all that bickering, eh?’ Volker said.

  ‘I never knew you to be so eager for a fight, Wendel,’ Jerrod said.

  Volker left his spear where he’d planted it. He drew his sword, and a single-bladed axe, from his belt, and hefted them meaningfully. ‘What else is there?’ he rasped. ‘There’s nowhere to run now. May as well take what I’m owed, before the end.’

  Volker had changed much in the weeks since they had arrived in Athel Loren, Jerrod reflected. It was as if something grew within him, remaking him in its image. What that image was, and what form it would eventually take, Jerrod could not say. Whatever it was, it frightened him. The white-haired knight had always been a brave, if hesitant man, with too much love of the bottle for Jerrod’s taste, but in the past few weeks he had become a fierce warrior, staying out on the borders of Athel Loren for days at a time, leading his band of foresters and scouts in hunting down any beastmen that slipped through the defences of the elves. The men who followed him included priests of Ulric and Taal, shrieking flagellants and howling, fanati
cal worshippers of the wolf-god. The mad and the lost, formed into a murderous pack that even the most bloodthirsty beast hesitated to cross.

  Volker’s eyes blazed, and Jerrod’s horse whinnied nervously as the temperature dropped suddenly. He followed Volker’s gaze, and saw that he was staring at the elf mage, Teclis. The mage fought beside Lileath, the elf-woman who was neither Incarnate nor noble, as far as Jerrod could tell. He could not, in fact, say what she was. Lileath of the Moon, and Ladrielle of the Veil – that was what she had called herself. But what did those names mean? Why did they sound so familiar to him, as if he had heard them before? In a dream, perhaps, he thought. Volker took a step towards them, weapons raised. Jerrod nudged his horse between them, blocking Volker’s line of sight. ‘Your Emperor has said that the mage is not to be harmed, my friend,’ he said.

  Volker grunted. ‘So he has.’ He twitched, and looked up at Jerrod. For a moment, his face was that of the man Jerrod had first met in Averheim, so many months ago. Then the mask was in place once more, and something feral looked out through Volker’s eyes. He nodded to Jerrod and turned, raising his weapons. He howled. Jerrod’s stallion stepped sideways in agitation as Volker’s band of lunatics ghosted through the glade, following into step with their commander. They flowed smoothly towards a point where the elven battle-line was beginning to buckle, and smashed into the beastmen with howls and wild screams.

  Jerrod saw the enemy reel from the sudden onslaught. Another charge might put them to flight, he thought. He signalled for one of his Companions to sound his horn. At the first quavering note, the Bretonnian knights broke off from the melee with an ease born of hard-won experience and formed up about him. Jerrod had lost his lance in the first crashing charge, but he wouldn’t need it. Momentum, and the blessings of the Lady, would see him through. And if not, well… death would not find him a coward.