‘Not a daemon. Not yet. Perhaps never. Such ugly things, daemons. Function over form, as they say,’ Sigvald said. His smile returned. ‘The gods have tasked we three with killing you, but, well, that is not an honour lightly bestowed,’ he purred, admiring his reflection in the polished surface of his shield. He glanced at them, and Volker felt a chill as those radiant eyes swept over him and dismissed him in the same instant. ‘I, of course, felt it should have been mine, but, well, my… comrades disagreed. So, the Reaper and the Wanderer fight. Winner gets you, Herald of Sigmar.’
‘And you?’ Valten asked.
Sigvald laughed, and Volker cringed. He wasn’t alone in that reaction. Even Brunner looked uncomfortable, and Fleischer unleashed a flurry of curses beneath her breath. The sound of Sigvald’s laughter was too perfect, too beautiful, and nearby, one of Valten’s men wept bloody tears as he dropped his weapon and clutched at his ears. He sank down into the dust, and began to whimper. Sigvald smiled, as if the sound were for his benefit. ‘I have no interest in you, son of the comet. You are but the appetiser to the glorious banquet to come, and one does not gobble such morsels. This is a very tasty world, and one must pace oneself, mustn’t one?’
He sniffed and rose gracefully to his feet. ‘No, the Chosen Son of Slaanesh shall not sully himself on the Herald, when he might yet taste the real thing. Am I not deserving of such an honour?’ His lips twitched. ‘The answer, by the way, is most assuredly yes. I am perfection, and I do not waste my gifts on the imperfect. Thus do I take my leave. There are still pleasures yet to be plumbed in this moving feast of a city, and I shall wallow in them to my heart’s content, while I wait the coming of the king.’
Valten watched as Sigvald strode off down the avenue, whistling a cheerful tune. Only when the creature had vanished into the clouds of dark smoke rolling across the street did he turn his attention to the duel. The battle had continued even as he and Sigvald had conversed, and neither warrior seemed to have noticed the new arrivals or have the upper hand.
Every time the armoured hulk wielding the flail battered the hairy giant from his feet, the latter was up again a moment later, cursing and slashing at his enemy, his blows glancing from the other’s maggot-ridden suit of Chaos plate.
Finally, the flail tore the heavy kite shield from its owner’s grasp. The latter staggered back, apparently off balance. His opponent closed in, stomping forwards. ‘Fall, Wanderer, for the glory of Father Nurgle,’ the Chaos champion rasped.
‘You first, Valnir,’ Wulfrik said. He twisted aside, avoiding his opponent’s next blow, and drove the broad blade of his sword into the pustule-lined gap between Valnir’s helmet and cuirass. Wulfrik leaned into the blow with a grunt, forcing the sword all the way through his opponent’s neck. The tip of the blade emerged in a burst of stinking gas and leprous filth. Valnir squawked and dropped his weapon as he reached up to claw at the blade. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Wulfrik growled. He set his boot against the other champion’s hip and wrenched his blade free, out through the back of Valnir’s neck.
Valnir’s head dropped from his bloated frame and bounced across the cobbles. Wulfrik shoved the twitching body aside and spat after it. ‘Say hello to the Crowfather for me, eh?’ he said, as he retrieved his shield. Wulfrik turned towards Valten. ‘Well, I like a man who’s prompt,’ he said in crude Reikspiel, spreading his arms. ‘Herald of Sigmar, I, Wulfrik the Worldwalker, the Inescapable One, demand that you face me. The gods want your skull on their fire, and I’m of a mind to give them what they wish.’
Valten said nothing. He slid from the saddle, and waved back Volker and the others. It was a command Volker was only too happy to obey. Wulfrik grinned. ‘I heard you did for old Mordrek. I killed him once myself.’ He blinked. ‘Twice, actually, now that I think about it.’
‘This time, he will stay dead. Is that what you wish for yourself?’ Valten asked, as he moved to meet the Chaos champion. ‘Death? I know you, Wanderer, though I do not know how. I know your name, and your fate. I know why you are here, and I know that you cannot stop me. My doom is… already written.’ Valten hesitated, as if uncertain. Then, he said, ‘And it is not by your hand.’
‘No, it wouldn’t be, would it?’ Wulfrik grunted. He sucked in a deep breath, and released it loudly. ‘Ahhhhh. No, I feel the weight of your weird from here, Herald. Not a grand doom, for you. Just a doom. Stupid and small.’ He looked up. ‘Do you think, at the end, there will be anyone left to sing our sagas?’
Valten was silent. Wulfrik laughed. ‘No, I thought not,’ he said. He slapped his shield with the flat of his sword. Valten raised his hammer. Wulfrik attacked first. He bulled forwards, attempting to smash Valten flat with the face of his shield. Valten pivoted aside, but before he could bring his hammer around to strike, the other’s sword was screeching across his armour. Valten stumbled back, eyes narrowed in surprise.
Wulfrik flashed his grin again and moved round warily, blade balanced on the rim of his shield. ‘Come on, boy… Long fights are the stuff of poets’ dreams,’ he growled.
Valten whirled Ghal Maraz about, and advanced. Wulfrik gave a harsh laugh and raised his shield, but Valten didn’t alter the trajectory of his blow. A moment later, Volker realised why – Ghal Maraz connected with the broad face of the shield, and the latter exploded into red hot fragments. Wulfrik was flung back by the force of the blow, and he skidded through the bodies. He was on his feet a moment later, his necklace of skulls rattling.
‘Now it’s a fight,’ Wulfrik roared. He caught his sword in two hands and bounded in, hurdling the piles of corpses. Valten met him halfway. Sword and hammer connected again and again, the sound echoing through the streets. Valten made a wild swing, driving Wulfrik back. The Wanderer retreated, but only for a moment, twisting in mid-step to bring his blade around in a blow meant to decapitate his opponent. Valten fell, avoiding the sword’s bite but losing his balance. He crashed to the ground, armour rattling, and rolled aside as Wulfrik’s blade came down again, drawing sparks from the cobblestones.
Valten, still on his back, swung Ghal Maraz. The head of the hammer smacked into Wulfrik’s waiting palm. Volker heard the bones of the man’s hand splinter and crack from where he stood, but Wulfrik gave no sign that he felt any pain. Instead, his broken fingers folded over the hammer as his foot lashed out, catching Valten in the chest. As Valten fell back, Wulfrik tore the hammer from his grip and hurled it aside.
Valten shoved himself up on his elbows as Wulfrik approached. ‘That hurt,’ the champion grunted. ‘Maybe your weird wasn’t so heavy after all, eh?’ He raised his blade in one hand, and brought it down.
Valten’s hands shot up, catching the blade. He gripped it tight, even as it bit into his palms. Thin rivulets of blood ran down the tip of the blade. Wulfrik was forced back a step as Valten gathered his feet under him and slowly rose, still gripping the sword. Metal cracked as Valten and his opponent faced one another across the length of sharpened steel. Wulfrik’s grin became a grimace of effort.
The sword shattered. Wulfrik fell forwards, eyes wide. Valten, a chunk of the sword still in his hand, slid it into the Chaos champion’s throat as he stumbled past. Wulfrik toppled, clutching at his neck. Valten retrieved his hammer and turned back to his enemy. Wulfrik, gasping and choking, lowered his hands and lay waiting. He was smiling again, his teeth stained with blood. ‘Good fight,’ he gurgled as Valten stood over him. He closed his eyes. Ghal Maraz struck.
Valten made his way back to the others. The blood on his hands had already dried. Volker was possessed by the sudden urge to kneel. An urge shared by his men, and one by one, they did so. Even Brunner. Valten looked down at them silently. Then, a slow, sad smile crept across his face. ‘Up,’ he said softly. ‘The Temple of Ulric is just ahead. And for good or ill, that is where we will make our stand.’