The End Times | The Lord of the End Times

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘That… thing struck him down. I don’t know where he is, and there’s no chance of finding out, not with the enemy hemming us in,’ Volker said, gesturing towards the spot where Ka’Bandha and Tyrion still fought as Gelt helped Alarielle down from the pegasus. ‘If you’ve got any magic that can find him, now’s the time to use it,’ he continued.

  Before Gelt could answer, an ear-splitting screech sounded over the din of the battle. The two Incarnates and Volker turned to see the bloodthirster reel back, away from Tyrion, its axe a twisted ruin. It tossed the smoking weapon aside and reached for Tyrion. It smashed his sword down, and knocked him from his feet. The daemon loomed over the elf, its hammer raised for a killing blow.

  ‘No,’ Alarielle hissed. She started forwards, but Volker stopped her, even as Ulric howled a warning in his mind.

  ‘Wait – look!’ he said. A sudden gale sprang up, sweeping across the Ulricsmund. And with it came a charnel stink that hung heavy on the air. A moment later, a swirling black cloud, roiling and pulsing with dark energy, burst out from between two buildings. The street shook beneath the tread of something monstrous as the cloud rolled forwards. Where it passed, combatants fell dead, their skin desiccated and cracked, their weapons and armour crumbling to dust. The cloud of death made no distinction between orcs and elves, skaven and northmen. It claimed them all.

  The cloud drew close to Ka’Bandha, who stared at it in bewildered rage. As it got within arm’s reach, it split open to reveal an immense, skeletal figure standing amidst the thinning vapour. Nagash had come, at last. And death came with him.

  Volker cringed back as Nagash drew his great, serrated blade and hewed at the bloodthirster. The daemon interposed its hammer at the last moment, and the two baneful weapons connected in a shower of sparks. Nagash gave a death-rattle of frustration and launched another blow. Ka’Bandha swatted it aside with a roar. The two beings slammed together and broke apart, their duel scattering the combatants around them as it shook the street. The remaining windows in the temple shattered as sword and hammer met again, and even the warpflames shied away from the duel.

  Through the smoke and dust thrown up by the confrontation, Volker saw a horse galloping towards them, the slumped form of Tyrion on its back. Alongside Alarielle, he caught the elf as he toppled from the saddle. ‘Does he live?’ she asked.

  ‘I live,’ Tyrion coughed, reaching up to stroke her face. She caught his hand and held it. Volker turned away, uncomfortable. Battle is no place for such things, Ulric growled petulantly.

  ‘Quiet,’ Volker murmured. He could hear something. Like a rattle of spears and a rumbling of drums, or the snap of distant flames. He turned, to ask Gelt if he’d heard it, and saw that the three Incarnates were staring up at the sky. Gelt was shaking in his saddle, and the elves looked bewildered.

  Lightning slammed down, not the blood-red lightning of the Chaos-cursed skies, but something brighter and purer. It struck the dome of the temple, and shook the Fauschlag down to its core. Ka’Bandha and Nagash both shrank back from the light, their fight forgotten in the face of such overwhelming elemental fury.

  Tyrion laughed.

  ‘Welcome back, my friend,’ he said.

  Sigmar strode through the dust and the smoke, lightning crawling across his form, Ghal Maraz in his hand. He had cast off the remains of his cloak, and his helmet. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole. Complete.

  He had been reborn in the broken body of Karl Franz as the Glottkin had ravaged Altdorf, called to a man of his blood by the winds of magic and fate, and perhaps even necessity. An empire, even a dying one, needed an emperor. I was the first, and so I will be the last, he thought sadly. Then he looked out at the massed ranks of friend and foe, and smiled. Or perhaps I will be the first again, come what may.

  But he had not been reborn whole. His power had been split, even as Ulric’s was, between himself and the man called Valten. But what had been in Valten had coiled waiting in the hammer he now held after the youth’s death, waiting for the hand of its true owner. Now, reunited, the power of the heavens was his once more, and Sigmar Unberogen was whole.

  He raised his hammer, and it began to glow with a cerulean light. As he passed Deathclaw’s broken form, the griffon stirred and clambered to its feet with a groggy scream. ‘Up, you lazy beast,’ Sigmar murmured, stretching out his hand to stroke its feathered neck. ‘Up. We have a war to win,’ he said. The beast made to follow him, but he waved it back. He strode towards Nagash and Ka’Bandha. The liche met his gaze and, after a moment’s hesitation, inclined his head.

  ‘UNBEROGEN,’ Nagash said.

  ‘Monster,’ Sigmar said conversationally. He swept Ghal Maraz out, and Nagash flinched back. ‘Step back, Nagash of Khemri. This one is mine.’ Sigmar stared at Ka’Bandha. The bloodthirster was still warily watching Nagash, even as the liche slunk back. ‘Turn, hellhound.’

  Ka’Bandha turned, a smile creeping across its distorted features. The daemon’s nose wrinkled. ‘Ahhhh. I smell the stink of a broken soul. You have defeated the Prince of Damnation.’ The bloodthirster’s smile widened, in its mask of flames. ‘Good. That saves me the trouble.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for you,’ Sigmar said, stepping through the rubble. ‘He was an obstacle. A stumbling block, set on the path of fate by your masters. They fear me.’ He lifted Ghal Maraz. ‘They fear this.’

  ‘I do not fear you,’ Ka’Bandha growled.

  ‘No. But then, you aren’t important. Just another obstacle.’ Sigmar leaned his hammer across his shoulder. ‘You’ve done your part, beast. And now the story goes on, without you.’

  ‘I will have your skull,’ Ka’Bandha snarled, raising its hammer.

  ‘No. But I will have yours,’ Sigmar said.

  Ka’Bandha roared and swung its hammer down. Sigmar ducked under the blow as it sizzled through the spot his head had occupied, and leapt onto the fallen statue of a forgotten hero. As Ka’Bandha turned, roaring, Sigmar was already in the air, his hammer clasped in both hands. The weapon seemed to glow for just a moment as it descended, and then with a thunderous crash, it slammed home. Ka’Bandha’s roar was cut short as the rune weapon crumpled Chaos-spawned bone and tore steaming flesh. Sigmar landed in a crouch, and Ka’Bandha crashed down beside him, its body already unravelling as the dark spirit of Khorne’s Huntsman fled back to the abattoir of souls from which it had been plucked.

  Sigmar rose slowly to his feet. As if that had been a signal, a great cry rose from the ranks of the Chaos horde, and, almost as one, they at last faltered. Some howled and fled, others dropped to the ground and cowered. Some fought on, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the brawling mass of orcs. Even as Sigmar joined the other Incarnates, the remainder of the Chaos horde broke and fled into the city, pursued by the greenskins and ogres. All save for a burly one-eyed orc, and his bodyguard.

  Sigmar eyed the beast as it stumped towards them, its broad form suffused with what he knew to be the Wind of Beasts. Well, that explains that, Sigmar thought. He hid a smile as the brute gestured curtly for Malekith to step forward. The Eternity King looked as battle-worn as any of them, and his eyes were hard behind his mask. ‘Grimgor, Boss of the East, demands that he be allowed to challenge the Everchosen,’ he said, his tone making it clear that he would brook no humour at his expense. ‘If you have a problem with it, he wishes it known that he will – ah – crump you.’ Grimgor nodded and glared about challengingly.

  ‘IF THE BEAST WISHES TO TRY ITS LUCK, LET IT,’ Nagash said. The uproar of battle had faded, and now the only sound was the eerie crackle of the warpflame barrier. Sigmar looked at it, stroking Deathclaw’s neck.

  ‘He will not try it alone,’ Tyrion said, sheathing his sword. ‘It will take all of us to win this battle.’ He frowned as he said it, and glanced sidelong at Nagash. ‘Even those we would rather not fight beside.’

  ‘YOUR PREFERENCES ARE OF LITTLE CON
CERN TO ME, ELF-PRINCE. I WOULD HAVE THIS AFFAIR DONE WITH,’ Nagash said. The liche stalked towards the barrier, amethyst magics crawling along his limbs as he focused his powers on the wall of daemonic flames.

  ‘We must aid him,’ Sigmar said. ‘All of you – turn your power upon the barrier. We must act as one, if we are to accomplish what we must.’ As he spoke, he thrust out a hand, and a bolt of lightning streaked from his palm to strike the barrier. One by one, the other Incarnates followed suit, and soon, the warpflames were assailed by the dichotomic onslaught of light and shadow, of life and death, lightning and shards of gold. The flames died back and surged forth, redoubling in strength even as the Incarnates smote them.

  Grimgor alone did not unleash the power that had made him its host. Instead, the orc hefted his axe and bellowed a wordless challenge at the pulsating barrier, before rushing in to strike the flames with a wild blow. Sigmar smiled as the barrier collapsed at last, and the orc staggered through. Grimgor spun wildly and decapitated one of the sorcerers responsible for the flame-barrier, even as the backwash of the broken spell consumed the others and reduced them to ash.

  Beyond the flames, Sigmar could see the great excavation and the smoke rising from its depths. He could feel the pull of those depths, and his hand tightened on Ghal Maraz’s haft. The Fauschlag gave a shudder, and he stumbled, feeling a hollow sensation in the pit of his gut. He looked around. ‘We must hurry. The artefact has awakened.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Tyrion said.

  ‘How can you not?’ Alarielle said, striding past him. Her face was pinched and tight with pain. ‘It is like a wound which will not heal – the world is screaming in agony.’ She stumbled, and Malekith solicitously caught her arm.

  ‘THE WORLD IS DYING,’ Nagash said.

  ‘And that is why we must hurry,’ Sigmar said. He looked around. ‘The fate of the world is in our hands, my friends,’ he said softly. ‘And we cannot afford to fail.’

  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.