‘What a quaint idea.’ Karl Franz stretched out. His face was still gaunt from the long sojourn in the wilds, but he had gained in strength during the flight south. There was a steely light in his eyes, something that both impressed and worried Martak.
He knows he won’t survive this. Does he look forward to death? Is that what this is about?
‘I will not ask you again, lord,’ said Martak, gathering himself for a final effort. ‘For all we know, Middenheim still stands. Schwarzhelm may have made for it. Of all your cities, it has the greatest defensive potential.’
‘Defensive potential? You sound like an engineer.’ Karl Franz shook his head. ‘We have been over this. I will not skulk around the margins. It is my city, and I will be there.’
Martak considered asking again, but decided against it. Once the Emperor’s mind was made up, he had no doubt it was impossible to shift.
He watched the sun struggle to rise, its wan light filtering slowly through the grimy soup of the night’s cloud cover. Palls of mist boiled clear of spiny conifer tops, tinged with yellow from the poisons now gnawing the roots. The stench was getting worse, like fungus unearthed from dank cellars.
The southern horizon had glowed throughout the night, a sick green that flickered and pulsed without rest. The clouds were being pulled towards the source like a gigantic blanket, rippling and furrowed in a vast, gradual rotation. At least there was no doubt over where they were headed.
‘And here they come,’ remarked Karl Franz, who had studiously avoided looking south. The two griffons were on the wing, returning from whatever hunting they had been able to find in such ravaged country.
Martak watched them approach. He took a little pride in seeing Deathclaw restored to something like its full prowess. The Emperor’s beast was far larger than his own, with a raw power to its movements that betrayed an enormous aptitude for killing. If it was still in pain from his earlier ministrations, it gave no sign of it, and now flew as strongly as an eagle.
With a whirl of claws and feathers, the two creatures landed on the ledge just below the cave-mouth, cawing at them both in what Martak guessed passed for a greeting. The Emperor acknowledged his mount’s arrival gracefully. Martak scowled at his, already dreading the prospect of riding it again.
‘You have seen the light, I take it?’ asked Karl Franz, almost casually.
Martak grimaced. ‘How could I miss it?’
‘Not the burning. The other light.’
Martak looked up. The skies were just as they always were – a sea of dirty, dingy grey, tinged with an unhealthy bruise pallor. Not knowing if he were being made fun of, he searched for something more. When he failed, he shot Karl Franz a suspicious look. ‘You mock me?’
Karl Franz shook his head, looking quite serious. ‘The twin-tailed star scores the heavens. I see it even when my eyes are closed. They can mask its light for a while, but it will burn through eventually.’ He smiled wryly. ‘What do you suppose that means? A sign of hope?’
Martak snorted. ‘What you propose is not hope but folly.’
Karl Franz looked at him tolerantly. Perhaps, in the past, wizards would have been put to the rack for such impertinence, but there were no henchmen out in the wilds, and the Emperor had proved surprisingly indulgent of Martak’s irritable ways.
‘It would not be here if our course were not sanctioned. I would perceive that.’ Karl Franz nodded towards his sword, propped up in its scabbard against the cave wall. ‘The runefang no longer answers, my armies are scattered, the sun’s light is quenched, but Sigmar’s star still burns. That is something to be cherished, I think.’
Martak did not say exactly what he thought of that. His empty stomach growled, souring his mood. They would have to be gone soon, straddling their half-feral mounts and heading towards deaths that were as certain as the rising of the moons. His counsel to head to Middenheim had been scorned, and the only consolation was that he stood a chance of fulfilling his vows to Margrit, which was very little to cling onto, since the chance of her being alive when they returned was slim indeed.
‘I am sure you are right, lord,’ he muttered, pulling his dirty cloak around him, thinking of what lay ahead, and shivering.
The knights of Bretonnia crested the last rise to the south of the city, and beheld the end of the world.
The vortex unlocked by the Leechlord was now a raging tornado, twisting its way through the lower city, ripping up roofs and throwing the tiles around in hailstorms of shattering clay. Flames roared around the walls, leaping up against the towering stone like sails in a gale, fuelled and spread by racing winds. Blooms of rot and canker flourished in spite of the inferno, glowing eerily in the fervid night and matching the unclean glare of the deathmoon, which presided over the carnage like some obscene god peering through the torn curtain of the skies.
Dawn was close, but the nearing sun made no impression on the mottled patchwork of magicks and sorcery. Altdorf was a lone rock amid a raging furnace of unrestrained madness. The Realm of Chaos had come to earth, and to witness it was to witness the birth of a new and horrific order.
The first rank of warhorses lined up on the ridge, marshalled by Jhared, de Lyonesse and the other knight commanders. The fleur-de-lys standard was unfurled, and it snapped madly in the tearing winds.
Leoncoeur himself flew above the vanguard, mounted on Beaquis. The remaining pegasi all now carried riders, each one hand-chosen to command the powerful beasts. The last of the lances had been distributed, and the clerics had cried out their benedictions. Every horse was already lathered with sweat from the desperate ride, and now yet more trials awaited them. The foremost were already stamping impatiently, tossing their manes and itching for the charge.
Leoncoeur urged Beaquis to climb, surveying the battle. The West Gate was closest, and was already tightly surrounded. An army of such immensity that it defied the senses stretched all around the walls, hammering at the perimeter amid a storm of projectiles and flashing spell-discharge. Trolls lumbered through the swarms of lesser warriors, crazed by mushrooms and waving flaming brands, only matched in ferocity by the towering, one-eyed beastmen from the deep forest. The noise was incredible – a wild chant of Shyish! bellowed out to the roll and slam of endless drums.
Already the defences were reeling. Leoncoeur could see the gates begin to buckle, the first siege ladders hitting their mark, the great engines crawling closer to unload their lethal contents. The topmost towers rose precariously above the tumult, looking impossibly fragile set against the hurricane that had enveloped them.
There would be no returning from this. To enter that maelstrom was to give up hope, to strike a single blow before the tide crushed them.
Leoncoeur looked down at his army, forged in haste and driven mercilessly across the mountains. Knight after knight took his place on the ridge, resplendent in plate armour and bearing the sigils of his heritage. It was a devastating force, one that Leoncoeur would have trusted to match any foe of the known world – until this day.
Now all had changed. The old rules had been ripped up and discarded, lain waste before the all-consuming hunger of the Ruinous Powers.
‘Jhared, lead your blades west!’ he cried. ‘Cut to the gate, and slay all before you! Teach them the fear of Bretonnia!’
The flame-haired knight saluted, still grinning as he slammed his visor down.
‘De Lyonesse, ride east, cutting off the assault on the southern walls! Hold them as long as you can, then break for Jhared’s position. Hit them hard! Hit them fast! They shall die choking on their laughter!’