At least the pain had faded. In the vampire’s presence, the legacy of the daemon’s claws seemed to lose its potency.
‘What was there to reply to?’ asked Helborg, trying to muster at least a show of belligerence.
‘That you recognised the wisdom of my offer,’ said Vlad, as smoothly as if he cared little one way or the other. ‘I have gone to some trouble to assemble the army you see before you. It will march on my command.’
Helborg smiled cynically. ‘And your price?’
‘You know it. I wish to be Elector of Sylvania. I wish to preside over my people in peace. I wish to look you in the eye as...’ He returned a colder smile. ‘...an equal.’
Helborg could still hear the sounds of battle. They were impossible to blot out, like constant reminders of everything he had done wrong.
‘That power lies with the Emperor,’ he said.
‘He is here?’
‘You know he is not.’
Vlad raised an eyebrow. ‘You credit me with too much foresight. Harkon has been disciplined for what he did – I had no part of it. As to Karl Franz’s survival or otherwise, a veil remains over it. Even my Master does not know his fate.’
Helborg wished he had something to lean on, to prop up his failing strength, but dared not show the slightest shred of weakness. Everything began to blur, like some nightmare that he had been plunged into. Contempt filled him, both for himself and for the creature he spoke to. That he had been reduced to negotiating with such a horror was humiliation enough, and he sensed there was more to come.
‘Why ask, von Carstein?’ Helborg asked, bitterly. ‘You have your armies.’
For a moment, fleetingly, Vlad looked genuinely hurt. ‘You always saw us as merely adversaries. You never stopped to ask what might be accomplished, were certain truths acknowledged.’ He shrugged. ‘The northern gate is the only one you still control. Allow me to enter it, and it will be enough. You will have invited me. That is important. I can aid you, but you must say the words.’
Helborg blurted out a sour, disbelieving laugh. ‘You... prey on us! You drag the dead from their graves and make them march beneath your banners. If Karl Franz were here–’
‘Which he is not, Reiksmarshal, and more’s the pity, because his wisdom is greater than yours.’ The vampire drew a little closer, and Helborg smelled the dry aroma from his armour. ‘You are a fighter, Kurt. Your soul is not made for governing. Already you have erred – the storm that tears your city from within could have been prevented. Do not let this thick neck lead you into more error.’ His dust-pale face creased in what might have passed for kindness, though it exposed wickedly long fangs. ‘Your time is up. I bring you power beyond your wildest hopes. Give me the word, and I will deliver your city.’
Helborg found he could not rip his gaze away from the vampire’s. There was no insulating himself from the sounds of destruction, though, nor the acrid smell of burning that drifted across the whole landscape.
Part of him burned to reach for his sword, just as he had planned. If he were quick enough, a single strike might suffice – the runefang had slain mightier creatures that this.
For some reason, he found himself thinking of Schwarzhelm. The gruff old warrior would never have got this close – the very prospect of talking to such a foul creature would have enraged him. Huss would have been the same. Helborg felt their eyes on him then, the great and the exalted of the Empire he venerated, judging him, accusing him.
But they were not there. They did not have to endure the screams, nor witness the slow destruction of all he had lived to preserve. He was alone and exhausted, and defeated.
There was nothing else. There were no other roads to take, no other allies to call on.
He looked into the darkness of the vampire’s eyes, and felt the footsteps of damnation catch up at last.
‘Then you will have what you demand,’ Helborg said, the words dragged out from his lips and tainted with loathing. ‘Save my city.’
The effect was immediate. All across the city, from the burning tenements to the moss-strangled walls of the Imperial Palace, the slime-covered soils started to shift. Just as at Wurtbad, at Kemperbad, and at every other staging-post along the great rivers, Vlad’s command of the Wind of Shyish was total. Whatever lingering power of faith that had existed over Altdorf had long been shattered by the Leechlord’s spells, and so the very fabric of Chaos came to the vampire’s aid.
The first to lift themselves were those slain in the night’s fighting. Cadavers rose from the mud, shaking off the wounds that had ended them and lurching instinctively towards the unwary servants of the plague-god. Huge piles of the dead had been dragged together before the two occupied gates, all of which suddenly began to twitch and stir.
The newly-killed were soon joined by those who had been in the cold earth for far longer. Forgotten graveyards trembled and shifted, their soils broken by dozens of clawed hands. With a sigh of ghostly half-breath, a new army arose amid the terror of the plague-rain, unaffected by fear and undaunted by the driving torrents of pus. They locked blank eyes onto the daemons, and marched towards them. All but the weakest of the aethyr-born were able to dispatch them easily, but the numbers soon rose, clogging the already claustrophobic streets with gangs of silent, eerily calm fighters.
Altdorf had been settled since the time of Sigmar, and had roots going back to the very dawn of human civilisation. With every passing moment, older warriors emerged from the slurry underfoot, tunnelling up from deep catacombs beneath lost chapels and warrior-temples. Armour that had not been seen for generations was exposed again to the uncertain light, and long-lost sigils of fallen houses were illuminated by the ravening flames.
Last of all, dredged up from the river itself, came the first inhabitants of the old Reik homesteads, the tribesmen who had marched with Sigmar himself as he forged his empire in blood. They crawled out of the stinking muds of the viscous waters, clutching onto the chains that still hung across the great wharfs. They emerged into the open, grim-faced, shaggy with stiff beards and long hair, their arms marked with bronze rings and their weapons beaten from iron. Unlike the later generations that had been raised, these looked as hale and strong as they had in life, save for the dull lack of awareness in their faces. They did not gaze in amazement at the enormous structures around them, despite their last living view of the city as a tiny fortress of wooden walls and stockades. All they had retained from their former existence was a primordial hatred of the enemies of mankind, and they raised their blades against the daemons without a moment’s hesitation. The blades that had once been borne alongside the living god retained more potency against the daemonic than any others, and soon the fighting was joined all along the riverbanks. Implacable undead took on the foul denizens of the Other Realm in bloodless, bitter combat.
The ranks of living corpses were quickly joined by Vlad’s host, which marched through the North Gate in triumph, dipping their sable banners under the portcullis and heading straight into the depths of the inner city. The surviving mortal defenders fell back to allow them passage, staring in horror at the ranks of vampires, ghouls and crypt horrors as they loped through walls that had defied them for a hundred lifetimes of men. For some, the sight was too much, and their will broke at last. They cast aside their weapons and fell to the ground, weeping with despair.
For others, though, the sight of such unnatural allies came as cause for sudden hope. Though the sight of the living dead may have turned their stomachs, witnessing them taking on the vast hordes of corrupted savages was enough to prove their worth. Those defenders remained at their posts, carving out a defence of the North Gate, hanging grimly on to the one slice of territory they had been able to keep unsullied.
Of Helborg himself, though, there was no sign. Leaving the command of the North Gate, the Reiksmarshal headed towards the river, his face a picture of harrowed resolve. Nor did Vlad von Carstein stay with the bulk of his host for long. Like the shades he commanded, the vampir
e melted into the shadows, leaving the prosecution of the battle to Mundvard and his other lieutenants. The bulk of the undead fanned out into Altdorf’s vast hinterland of criss-crossing alleys and thoroughfares, and soon the entire city was gripped by the murderous conflict of perverse life against preternatural death.
Margrit was unaware of all of this as it happened. With the last of the sacred waters sprinkled about the perimeter of the temple, she had taken up arms at last, determined to fight for as long as her strength allowed her. Mumbling litanies over and over, she had joined the remnants of Gerhard’s temple guard in the courtyard inside the gates. No more than three-dozen guards remained, the rest having succumbed at last to the contagions that now ran rampant even in the infirmaries. Fewer than a hundred sisters were still able to stand with them unaided, and they clustered close behind Margrit, each bearing whatever weapons had been to hand.
Before them, the inner wall’s gates shivered as the creature beyond them hammered on the wood. The defenders inched back across the courtyard, assembling on the stairs leading up to the garden colonnade.
‘Courage,’ urged Margrit, despite the fear that rose up in her gorge and nearly throttled her.
They all felt fear. They were all trembling. The difference lay in how they dealt with that.
‘Can it cross the threshold?’ asked Elia, her hands visibly shaking.
Margrit did not know. The line of sacred water snaked across the courtyard in front of them, barely a hand’s width wide. It looked so completely insubstantial – a child could have skipped across it without ever noticing it.
And yet, the temple endured while everything around had been reduced to smouldering, slime-boiling rubble. She had held her faith for her whole life, and the precepts had never failed her. The great and the good of the Empire had always looked down on the Sisters of Shallya, seeing them as matronly mystics and little more. And yet the proud Colleges of Magic were now shattered haunts of the daemonic, and the mighty Engineering School was a smoking crater.
‘The threshold will endure,’ Margrit said, trying to sound like she meant it.
The doors shuddered again, and a gurgling roar echoed out. The creature was becoming frustrated, and its maddened fury was spilling over into raw mania. The stones of the outer wall were rocked, sending trails of dust spiralling down to the earth. Another blow came in, almost snapping the main brace across the doors.
More blows came in, faster and heavier. A crack ran down the oak, splitting it into a lattice of splinters. A clawed fist punched clean through, breaking the heavy beams at last and rocking the iron hinges.
A sister screamed. Margrit turned on her. ‘No retreat!’ she shouted. ‘We stand here! We are the blessed ones, the chosen of the Earth Goddess! No creature of the Outer Dark may–’
Her words were obscured by a huge crack as the gates gave way at last. With a throaty bellow of triumph, the greater daemon smashed its way through the remains, hurling aside the severed residue and sending the ragged-ended spars spinning.
Margrit shrunk back, her defiance dying in her throat. The creature was enormous – far bigger than it had seemed when she had first caught sight of it from the walls. Surely nothing could stop it – no power of magic, no power of faith. She looked up at it as the monster swaggered and hauled itself through the gap, and its enormous shadow fell over her.
Some of her sisters vomited, overcome by the incredible stench. Temple guards dropped their blades, staring slack-jawed at the vision of hell approaching. The behemoth rolled towards them, shedding slime down its flanks as the foul rain washed it into the mire beneath.
It took all her courage, but Margrit managed a single step forward, her blade clutched in two shaking hands. She glared up at the creature of Chaos, planting her feet firmly.
‘Go back!’ she cried. ‘Take one more step, and, by the goddess, it will be your last!’
The daemon looked down at her, and laughed. Huge yellow eyes rolled with mirth, and drool the length of a man’s arm spilled from its gaping maw. Moving deliberately, with an exaggerated, mocking studiousness, it lifted a cloven hoof and placed it, heavily, over the line of sacred water.
The liquid steamed and hissed as it was defiled, and Margrit smelled rotten flesh burning. For a moment, she dared to hope that the slender barrier would be enough.
Then the daemon chortled again, and hauled itself closer, dragging its flab through the smeared puddles of water.
Margrit stood her ground, her heart thumping, her last hope gone. Sliding like oil on water, the putrid shadow of the daemon fell across her once more.
TWENTY-ONE
Ghurk galloped onward, smashing his way up the long causeway to the Palace. Resistance was crumbling now.
Atop his habitual perch, Otto urged his outsize sibling harder, cracking the heel of his scythe across Ghurk’s scaly neck.
‘No time!’ he blurted, feeling a mix of exhilaration and consternation. ‘No time at all! Smash and break! Crush and stamp!’
The battle for the West Gate had been a frustratingly slow business, with the defenders lingering at their posts far longer than they had any right to. The cannons had caused havoc with his best troops until Ethrac had finally got close enough to burst their barrels with a few choice spells. Even then, the mortals had stupidly and annoyingly remained in place for much too long. They were led by a redoubtable captain wearing white and black who had roused them to almost insane levels of bravado. Otto had been forced to kill that one himself, leaping from Ghurk’s back and going at him with his scythe. They had traded blows on the summit of the gates with green lightning crackling around them. The human had fought well, wielding his broadsword two-handed with both speed and power.
It had done him little good in the end. Otto may have looked bloated in comparison, but his muscles were infused with the raging power of the Urfather. He did not even need Ghurk to come to his aid this time, and his scythe ripped through the knight’s stomach, slicing through the breastplate as if being dipped into water.
Once that warrior was thrown down, the defenders’ resolve melted, and the resistance began to crack. The gates were broken and the biggest and best of Otto’s serried host had flowed into the walls of the city. Just as at Marienburg, the glorious blossoming of the Urfather’s pestilential delights followed them in. The place was ripe for it – half-consumed by spores and moss-growths already, it was fertile ground for Ethrac’s conjurings.
Otto clambered back onto Ghurk’s shoulders, and the onslaught continued. Columns of chanting Norscans surged up the twisting streets, torching the overhanging houses as they went. Bands of marauders broke from the main charge and rampaged through the whole district, greeted with joy by the gangs of petty daemons squatting and slavering on the eaves.
The remaining defenders were driven back, slain in swathes every time they attempted to mount a resistance. Reserves were called up, and were swept away. Lines of artillery, placed in the courtyards on the approach to the Palace, were briefly effective but soon overwhelmed.
It would have been faster if the damned horsemen had not appeared and dragged half his army away into a desperate battle outside the walls. Ghurk had wanted to turn back and take them on himself, and only Ethrac threatening to shrink his stomach to the size of a walnut had persuaded him to keep going. Combat could rage for as long they liked on the plain west of the walls, and it would still not suffice to keep them from their true goal. They would approach the inner city with diminished numbers, it was true, but they still had enough to accomplish their divine task.
Now it approached. The Palace itself reared up into the flame-streaked murk, already covered in a creeping jacket of twisting fibres. Its vast gates were cracked and thrown down, its mighty domes gaping like smashed eggshells, its immense towers burning. Daemons leapt and scampered across its long, rangy battlements, pursuing the few living defenders with commendably spiteful zeal. Lightning snapped and twisted across its shattered vistas, licking like whips along the ragge
d profile.
‘There it lies, o my brother!’ shouted Otto, standing up on Ghurk’s heaving shoulders. ‘You see it? There it lies!’
Even Ethrac was grinning then. He stood too, leaning on his staff. The Imperial Palace – the very heart of the mortals’ realm – lay broken before them. No invading army had ever come this far. This was the throne of the boy-god, the very heart of his foul and decadent kingdom, and they were on the cusp of it. They had slain and slain and slain until the mud-mires of the streets were the colours of spoiled wine, and this was the reward.
Otto looked up at the colossal edifice, and began to laugh. The laughter split his lips, burbling like a torrent from his mouth. His ribs ached, his shoulders shook. There was nothing left – they had done it.
Ghurk cantered happily up the long straight road towards the Palace, crashing into the statues of old heroes that lined the processional. Behind him came the tribesmen of the wilds, driven into a frenzy by the savage joy of sacking the home of their ancestral enemies.
Otto was the first to spot the newcomers. In defiance of all reason, more defenders were clustering around the Palace’s outer walls. As if plucked from the air, they were lining what remained of the parapets and waiting for the onslaught. At first, he could not believe it – thinking it a trick of the flickering half-light.
Then, slowly, he realised the truth.
‘The dead,’ he muttered.
By then, Ethrac had sensed it, too. ‘I knew it!’ the sorcerer snapped. ‘Did I not warn you?’
Otto glowered at him. More skeletons and living cadavers were taking up position across the Palace approaches, blocking the head of the processional in ever greater numbers. Unlike the mortals they replaced, they showed nothing but implacable dedication, standing silently before the oncoming horde, their pale faces empty and their eyes unblinking.
The End Times | The Fall of Altdorf Page 28
