Chaos, Ulric said. The thief stole my flame, and now the world aches as old wounds open in her flesh. Our mother dies, Gregor Martak, and I die with her. I am the last of the Firstborn, and my power, my rage… fades.
Martak looked up into the old god’s face. There was fear there, but anger as well. The anger of a dying wolf as it snaps and snarls at its hunters, even as the trap crushes its leg and the spears pierce its belly. Ulric released his throat and laid a hand on his shoulder.
But it is not gone yet.
Ulric was not one to waste time. There was a moment of pain, of a cold beyond any Martak had felt, and a tearing sensation deep in his chest, as if something had eaten out his heart to make room for itself. And then, the world crashed back to life around him.
Martak opened his eyes. He could hear the crackle of Malofex’s flames, Greiss’s shouts, the din of battle. And beneath it all, the heartbeat of a god. Frost slipped from between his lips as time began to speed up. His staff vibrated in his grip as the ancient wood was permeated with rivulets of ice. He released it and it exploded into a thousand glittering shards, which hovered before him. The temperature around him dropped precipitously, and Malofex’s flames were turned to ice. The sorcerer stopped and looked around, confused.
The hungry smile of a predator spread across Martak’s features. The shards of icy wood shot forwards, punching through Malofex’s hastily erected mystical defences as if they were not there, and smashed into the sorcerer’s body. He was hurled backwards, and where he crashed down, ice began to creep across the cobblestones.
Malofex tried to pull himself upright, his many mouths cursing and screaming. The shards burrowed into him and tendrils of ice erupted from his twitching frame, coating him in frost and covering the street. Soon, there was nothing left of the sorcerer save a grisly sculpture. Martak turned his attentions to the northmen.
As the Chaos worshippers charged towards him, he raised his hands. He snarled a string of guttural syllables, and the air hummed, twitched and then exploded into a howling blizzard. Those closest to him were flash-frozen where they stood, becoming ice-bound statues, much like Malofex. Martak brought his hands together in a thunderous clap, and the newly made statues exploded into a storm of glittering shards. Hundreds fell to the icy maelstrom. Beastmen, skaven and Chaos warriors alike were ripped to shreds by Ulric’s wintry fangs.
Martak lifted his hand, drawing the newly fallen snow and ice up in a cracking, crunching wave, and a moment later, the Manndrestrasse was blocked by a solid wall of ice. The wizard lowered his hand, and turned. Frightened men stumbled away from him, their breath turning to frost on the chilly air which emanated from him. Only Greiss did not fall back as Martak approached. Even so, the old knight flinched as Martak’s eyes came to rest on him.
‘Your eyes… they’ve changed,’ Greiss said.
‘Yes,’ Martak said. ‘We must fall back. To the Temple of Ulric, where the heart of the city still beats. Valten will meet us there, as will any other survivors.’ He strode past Greiss without waiting for a reply.
‘How do you know he’ll be there?’ Greiss demanded. ‘How did you do whatever it was you just did?’ He lumbered after Martak. ‘Answer me, wizard!’
Martak stopped, and turned. Greiss froze. The old man stared at him, and his face paled as he began to at last comprehend what he was looking at. ‘Your eyes are yellow,’ Greiss murmured. ‘A wolf’s eyes…’
Martak said nothing. He turned away. A moment later, the first of his men followed. The ranks split around Greiss and flowed after Martak, leaving the Grand Master of the Order of the White Wolf staring after them.
Wendel Volker beat aside the rough wooden shield and drove his sword through the northman’s stinking furs. The warrior uttered a strangled cough as he folded over the blade. Volker set his boot against the dead man and jerked his weapon free.
Panting, he looked around. The battle, such as it had been, was winding down. A few dozen had tried to ambush his small troop of handgunners and halberdiers, and had fared accordingly. His mother had always said that northmen had neither fear nor sense, and that combination was what made them dangerous. Volker was forced to agree, given what he’d seen of their conduct so far. It was as if they had all been driven mad, all at once, and unleashed by some ill-tempered caretaker.
Then, perhaps their madness was merely acceptance of the inevitable. The horizon glowed with witchfire, and strangely hued smoke rose above the eastern section of the city. He could hear strange sounds slithering through the streets, like cackling children and grunting hogs. Shadows without bodies to cast them moved tauntingly along the walls to either side of Valten’s battered column of men, and sometimes, when Volker glanced at them quickly enough, they seemed to be reaching for him.
Ghosts, he thought. The city was full of ghosts now. Would it become like they said Praag had been, before its final razing, or like Talabheim was now – a haunt for monsters and daemons, unfit for normal men? That was always the bit of the old stories that had stuck in Volker’s craw as a child. Even when men won, they lost. It hadn’t seemed particularly fair to a lad of six, and the world hadn’t done much to change his opinion since.
‘Right, lads, back in line,’ he called out to the others. They wore a collection of uniforms from various provinces and carried a motley assortment of weapons, and there was at least one woman among their ranks, a narrow-faced sneak-thief named Fleischer. ‘Close ranks, wipe the blood off your faces and don’t get separated. If you get lost, I’m not bloody well coming to look for you.’
‘Not unless we’re in a tavern,’ one wit grunted, a formidable looking man by the name of Brunner. He wore a dented sallet helm that covered most of his face, and a battered suit of brigandine armour. Bandoliers of throwing knives and pistols scavenged from gods alone knew where hung across his bulky torso.
Volker pointed his sword in Brunner’s direction. ‘And if you find one that’s still standing, and not drier than the Arabyan desert, be sure to let me know.’ The others laughed, as Volker had known they would. Even Brunner cracked a smile. He’d known men who commanded through fear, like the late, unlamented Captain Kross with whom he’d shared duties at Heldenhame, and others who seemed born to it, like Kurt Helborg. But for the Wendel Volkers of the world, who were neither particularly frightful, nor authoritative, humour was the lever of command.
A jape and a jest served to keep you surrounded by friends, rather than resentful underlings. Discipline was required, but a bit of honey helped it work its way down. It was especially useful given that he and his motley coterie were the merest nub of the hundred or so men who had followed Valten from the northern gatehouse or been picked up en route. The northmen were pressing into the city from all directions now, and the shattered remnants of the defensive garrisons were retreating before them.
Why exactly he’d volunteered to lead the way and act as the point of the spear, Volker couldn’t say. Valten hadn’t asked, and there were other men likely better suited to the task close to hand. But he’d needed to do it. He’d needed to prove something to himself, perhaps, or maybe he’d simply needed to do something. Something to occupy his mind, something to focus on, to keep him busy while the darkness closed in. When the end came, Volker didn’t want to see it. He had a feeling that it wouldn’t be any more pleasant for seeing it coming. Not for him a hero’s death. Something quiet and relatively painless would suit him fine.