Suddenly, a burst of brilliant light surged from her staff. The magic was unleashed, and Artheris soared high into the night air. Her cloak billowed out around her, and a halo of searing energy sprung into existence. She seemed to grow in size, as if her frail body had been enhanced in the lens of a spyglass. Her simple robes suddenly blazed with golden runes, and her face glowed with the sunlight of Averlorn. Those beneath her gazed up in wonder. With all need for disguise removed, she now appeared as her true self. Artheris of Ellyrion. Disciple of Teclis. Archmage of the Lore of Hoeth.
The Lord of Change croaked what seemed like a meagre laugh. Its emaciated neck strained with the effort. Waves of warping energy emanated from it, sweeping through the night air like ripples on a lake. In its wake, the spawns at its feet gurgled and wept in misery. It limped forwards, croaking vile obscenities in some language no mortal could comprehend. Artheris found images entering her mind, visions of her soul shrivelling and burning before a throne of adamant and sapphire. She saw endless torment, saw herself begging for death while the foul denizens of the Realm of Chaos laughed and bayed for more. The warning was clear. This was the fate which awaited her if she should fail.
Artheris raised her staff over her head, and her halo exploded in shards of silver. A stream of pulsating, pure energy raced towards the daemon, shattering as it impacted on the glittering skin. The Lord of Change reeled. It took a step back, and slammed its staff into the earth. Chaos warriors milling at its feet were thrown aside as violent purple flames raced up the length of the massive shaft. When they reached the sigil of Tzeentch, they erupted in swirls of many colours, dousing Artheris’s white illumination and polluting it with a riot of shades.
Artheris, floating effortlessly at the same level of the daemon’s head, sent a fresh barrage of searing white energy at the monstrous creature. The forces unleashed screamed through the air. The flickers and sparks of lesser magic on the battlefield were nothing compared with the titanic energies being wielded in the heavens.
The Lord of Change leaned into the assault. Its wings rose high into the night, blotting out the meagre light of the world’s moon and capturing the unhealthy aura of Morrslieb. It absorbed the column of cascading light magic, though it had to take another backwards step. With a bird-like cry of effort, it began to bend the shaft of pure energy into a new shape, moulding the magical essence like molten metal. As Artheris poured fresh power into the incantation, the daemon turned the ethereal substance back on itself.
The spitting, incandescent matter slowly warped into a bizarre flock of violently evolving creatures. Each was striped with all the colours of the rainbow, endlessly flickering and changing. Eyes popped into being before dissolving into beaks. Limbs thrust themselves outwards before shredding instantaneously and becoming wings or spikes of bone. The flock grew, feeding on Artheris’s energy, pulling it from the heavens and transmuting the pure magic into corruption and madness.
With a triumphant howl, the daemon let its progeny loose. They swept in a great wave towards Artheris. The mage whirled her staff around, and her robes flew about her like a whirlwind. Blazing bolts of magic flew from her, piercing the swooping creatures before they could latch on to her. Twisted, morphing carcasses fell from the sky, dissipating into boiling pools of fluid where they struck the ground.
The battle in the air was fierce. The Lord of Change limped forward, spinning more screaming mockeries of birds from the magic-drenched air. Artheris cried aloud, and her staff instantly transmuted into a huge flaming sword, blazing with argent light. She soared amongst the creatures of pure Chaos, scything them from the skies with great sweeps of her mage-born blade. Where the sword passed, the air seemed to ignite with a sparkling fire. She swept through them, carving a swathe of destruction.
The last of them fell. Artheris swooped towards the Lord of Change. Her face was set in determination, and still glowed with light. At her breast, a golden orb was growing. She fed it power, glorying in its perfection and beauty even in the midst of the struggle. The daemon began a fresh spell, and eerie hoops of lambent colour began to shift up and down its crooked staff.
With words of blessing, Artheris sent the golden orb spinning from her towards the Lord of Change. Before it hit, the daemon issued its own counter-spell. Vast tendrils of brilliant hues shot from its staff, snaking towards the archmage in a writhing, straining bunch. They latched on to her like vines, dragging her downwards, clutching at her staff and robes. Strange blind jaws clamped on to her cloak. Where they closed over the runes, bursts of energy discharged, singeing the swirling forest of tendrils and causing them to drop, smoking, from the air.
Under the weight of the mass of serpentine entities, Artheris felt her strength begin to sap. Where they fastened on to her, streaks of pain shot into her body, draining her power and crippling the link between her and the buffeting winds of magic. Her face remaining calm, she delved deep, whispering words of lore. Nothing happened. She was engulfed in the many-hued tendrils, and began to plummet to earth under the weight of them. With a crack of arcane power, the entire bundle slammed into the ground, exploding in a riot of colour. Gouts of steam leapt up. Any warriors close to the impact were knocked backwards, and the ground heaved and broke.
The waves of magic ebbed away. The Lord of Change walked over to the site warily. The last of the tendrils were disappearing, unwinding into nothingness as the spells which held them together extinguished. The forgotten golden orb sank gently over its forehead. Then it exploded into a blaze of light and heat. The daemon was pitched backwards, its wings flapping wildly. From the centre of the inferno, darts of fiery gold tore towards the reeling Lord of Change. From the very centre of the storm of arrows, Artheris emerged. She was clad in gold from head to toe, as if the orb had somehow become her. Or perhaps she had become the orb. A smile of satisfaction was marked on her smooth features.
‘Trust not in your eyes, daemon!’ she cried. ‘I have powers you may only guess at!’
With that, she slammed more searing darts at the Lord of Change, who cowered under the onslaught. Raising its wings around it, it vainly tried to ward off the spinning, spitting points of brilliant flame, trying to prevent them from finding their target. It roared with pain and frustration, staggering and lurching. Artheris swept onwards, summoning more darts. Lightning flickered around her, kindling on the vast aura of magic swirling in the heavens and blazing brightly. Like a vision of Asuryan himself, she sent bolt after bolt thumping into the hide of the monster before her.
But her foe was not some mere mortal enchanter. The Lord of Change had powers drawn from the Master of Sorcery himself. It was an avatar of magic, a living shard of Chaos, an aspect of Tzeentch himself. It screeched with pain and fury, and a great web of whirling distortion began to emerge before it. Like an insubstantial shield, it spread across the space between it and the vengeful Artheris. It was transparent, its presence only given away by the turbulence it caused. The distortion grew. When the bolts hit it, they spiralled away in every direction, flying high into the sky or raining ruinously into the hosts beneath. As the warping barrier expanded, few found their mark.
Artheris modified the spell, sending the darts looping over the edges of the great circular shield. But the Lord of Change, uncurled from its cowering posture, thrust its staff into the centre of the vortex. The emanation rippled and enveloped the daemon. The entire form of the Lord of Change became a shower of broken, half-complete images. It was as if its reflection was being spied in a shattered mirror.
Artheris withdrew, her face marked with consternation. A horrifying collection of daemon aspects advanced towards her. A dozen copies of its eye stared out from the reflective splinters, a dozen copies of its beak curled in satisfaction. The staff, in all its splintered confusion, rose high. Artheris felt something clench around her heart. She looked down in horror. Her own body was beginning to rebel. Distortions and growths rippled beneath her skin. She began to lose control of her limbs, and had to issue a spell of
command to regain her mastery. She was being changed, warped by the power of the daemon into one of its playthings.
Crying out from fear and pain, she pulled a shimmering cloak of warding from the aethyr around her. It clung to her, and the worst of the attack was blunted. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she let fly a fresh barrage of silver energy. The screen of distortion encasing the daemon buckled. More energy flowed, fed by the elemental forces whirling around them. The screen shattered. A surge of dark magic rushed outwards, buffeting Artheris and sending her spinning backwards.
She fought her way back to her position, labouring through the air like a swimmer against the tide. Even her prodigious strength was beginning to wane. She faced the daemon once more. It stood as it had before, whole and undivided. It looked at her with a leering, sardonic expression on its ancient face.
At that, Artheris finally felt fury overtake her. On the ground below, she could see the bodies of the slain. She could sense the anguish of those that still fought. The pure white cloth of the Swordmasters lay in the mire alongside the black iron armour of the enemy. So many had died. So many would die. Teclis had always taught her not to hate, but now his warning went unheeded. The cause of all their suffering stood before her, sneering and grinning.
Knowing the danger, knowing what perils anger could bring, she unlocked the long-confined hatred in her soul. Her staff shifted into the form of a mighty spear, tipped with blazing ithilmar and engraved with runes of awesome power.
With a cry of anguish and loathing, she soared high into the air, wheeling like a bird of the heavens. Holding the spear aloft, she plummeted down towards the daemon, uncaring of the clouds of dark magic billowing up to meet her.
She fell like lightning from heaven. It raised its staff to meet her. They came together with a clap of thunder. Cataclysmic forces rocked the earth beneath them, and a crushing wave of force radiated outwards, scattering those still close by. Pure magic clashed with pure sorcery. The end had come.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lost in a world of darkness, Alexander felt his awareness begin to slip away. Malek’s spell was crushing the life out of him. His hands scrabbled at his eyes, trying desperately to scrape the thick, suffocating substance from his face. It was in his mouth, his nose, crushing the life from him as surely as the serpents of legend. His staff had been dropped, and the power which had surged so effortlessly through him had now abated.
Gasping for breath, he sank to his knees. Not for the first time since he had left Altdorf on his fateful assignment, the prospect of death loomed vividly. He collapsed into the mud, feeling the slick, cool surface under his tortured body. And then, against all expectation, the shadowy web evaporated. With a lurch, he sucked in a lungful of air. Stars exploded in his temples, and he reeled. The heavy sorcerous weight lifted immediately, as if it had never been there. His vision clearing somewhat, he pushed himself back up on to his knees, and tried to make sense of what was going on.
The last shreds of shadow left him, and he blinked furiously. The battle still raged all around, though no warrior had dared to come between Malek and him. The sorcerer was some distance away. His face was rent with pain, and he was bent double, clutching his midriff. His iron staff lay discarded. For the first time, Alexander saw real fear in his eyes.
‘Kalia!’ Malek gasped, edging backwards.
Alexander followed his gaze, and spied a second dark elf. A woman. She had a dagger in her left hand. He guessed the one in her right was now buried in Malek. Slowly, painfully, Alexander began to grope through the slime towards his staff. He was still shaken and nauseous from Malek’s sorcery.
‘You really didn’t think I’d come after you?’ asked Kalia, speaking to Malek. ‘How little you know of the ways of the Disciples. We never forget.’
Malek stooped further, reaching for his staff. A second dagger went spinning through the air. With incredible accuracy, it sliced off his outstretched hand. Blood pumped vigorously into the air, and Malek screamed, crumpling to the earth in agony.
Kalia strode over to the prone sorcerer, ignoring Alexander entirely. She pulled his head up by his hair. Drawing a third dagger, she placed it against his pale neck.
‘Do not do this!’ gasped the sorcerer, his scorn and arrogance forgotten. ‘I have protectors! You’ll never be able to return to Naggaroth again. You need me!’
Kalia gave him a look of such concentrated scorn that Alexander winced. She pressed the knife closer against his windpipe, drawing a thin line of blood.
‘You understand nothing,’ she hissed, her voice cutting like acid through the air. ‘It wouldn’t matter if your death condemned my soul to a thousand years of torment. Thank the fates that we have met in battle. If things were otherwise, your end would be an exercise in agony.’
Malek grappled wildly with his left hand, desperately trying to push the knife from his neck. It was no good. With a single, swift movement, Kalia cut his throat. The hot blood welled up and sluiced down his chest, drenching the exquisite purple robes a deep crimson.
Kalia wiped her knife on his body, and stood up. Alexander finally managed to grab hold of his staff, and rose shakily. With Malek’s sorcery removed, other warriors on both sides had begun to press towards them. The circle which had been formed by the flailing streams of magic had been broken, and the brief lull in the battle was closing.
Rousing herself, the Disciple looked around her. She caught sight of Alexander brandishing his staff. She looked him up and down, and a curl of fresh disdain flickered across her lips. She seemed to consider engaging him, but a State trooper, covered in blood and fleeing from combat, careered between them. His face was lined with fear. Alexander pushed the man aside roughly, but by then the tide of battle had closed in again. The dark elf melted into the closing mass of soldiers. A cultist, his face covered in tattoos and metal studs, leapt into Alexander’s path. The man screamed and brandished a rough cudgel. Others advanced in his wake, wary of Alexander’s staff but eager to spill his blood. With a sigh, the Bright wizard began to muster his strength once more. The battle was far from being over.
‘Taal’s teeth,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I hate dark elves.’
Schulmann roared in defiance, trying to rally the soldiers around him. His men were falling in droves, weakened by exhaustion and terror. The truly massive Chaos warriors, the ones encased in thick plate armour, had been tied up by the elven Swordmasters and Reiksguard. But there were plenty of lesser fighters left to cause them problems, including a ferocious pack of fur-clad marauders wielding heavy cleavers and axes. Schulmann and Fassbinder’s men were being pushed hard. Even the reinforcements from Artheris’s army hadn’t stemmed the losses entirely. They were being pushed back.
The Chaos warriors bellowed with unfettered aggression, and charged the lines again. Though his bones ached to their core, Schulmann rose to meet the challenge. On either side of him, his troops furiously hacked and slashed, desperate to hold the fragile front against the marauders. Schulmann found himself faced by a huge bearded norseman wielding a cleaver. He strode forward, slashing wildly with his sword. Schulmann aimed for the midriff, but the blow clanged harmlessly off the norseman’s metal-studded shield. He was quicker than he looked, this one.
The warrior bellowed an incoherent oath, and charged again. Schulmann leapt backward, attempting to make the marauder overrun. But his feet caught in one of the many bodies sunk into the earth, and he went sprawling on his back. Something hit the back of his head, and black stars spun in front of his eyes. He raised his sword, half-blindly. It was knocked aside. The warrior stood triumphantly over him, roaring with pleasure. The cleaver was raised.
The blow never fell. Someone barrelled into the warrior and sent them both tumbling in the mud. Shaking his head, Schulmann rose to his feet. The norseman was grappling with one of Heinrich’s men. Schulmann raised his sword high, and brought it down on the marauder’s neck with a crushing finality. The warrior’s neck was severed, and his rage was
stilled.
The soldier who had saved him lay immobile. Hoping against hope that he might still be alive, Schulmann dragged him out from under the corpse of the norseman and away from the fighting. The two of them withdrew a few yards from the struggling combatants. As Schulmann helped him roll over, he realised with a pang of horror that the soldier was Fassbinder.
The captain’s face was drawn. His tunic was drenched in red. A gaping wound opened just below his chest, and blood drained from it freely.
‘S-Schulmann,’ Fassbinder gasped with effort, his last breath leaving him. ‘You were right about Heinrich. I’m sorry.’
The captain coughed up a thick gout of blood, and his eyes glazed. Schulmann could only watch as his erstwhile enemy’s life gave out. He looked down at the lean, noble face for a few moments, aware of the danger but suddenly loathe to leave. The battle raged just yards away, but it seemed strangely insubstantial. A sick feeling gnawed at him. Though on opposite sides of a dirty, pointless war, there had never been a doubt in his mind that Fassbinder was a worthy adversary. Though many had died, including those as close as brothers to him, for some reason this affected him the most.
The futility of all he had done came crashing down on him. For a moment, he felt an overwhelming urge to give up, to sink to the earth and let the battle take its course. Everything had been for naught.
But then the clash of steel roused him. His men were being pushed back once more. Bitterly, Schulmann closed the captain’s eyelids. So their feud ended. He rose, turned from Fassbinder’s body, and strode back towards his men. His bloodstained blade was heavy in his hands. Lightning and fire streaked across the sky, and his face was black. There could be no consolation, but there was always vengeance. For men such as him, that was all there ever was.
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