Horvath died slowly, and angrily if his frustrated howls were any indication. The Knights Panther, clad in their swirling, spotted skins and dark armour, had ridden out of an isolated cul-de-sac as the horde passed by, moving in pursuit of the retreating state troops. Horvath had been one of the unlucky ones, caught and spitted on a lance in that first charge. But it wasn’t until the Knights Panther were joined by halberdiers, spearmen and crossbowmen, all flooding the wide boulevard, that Canto realised that the Headsmen, and the warbands following in their wake, had been drawn into a trap.
Middenheim, for all that it was undone and doomed, was still a battleground. Every house, every temple, every guildhall and tavern, was a fortress filled with desperate, deadly enemies, all determined to make Archaon’s followers pay in blood for every stretch of street. Helblasters vomited volleys of shot from open doorways, and handgunners fired from behind overturned wagons and toppled stalls at the other end of the boulevard.
The warriors of Chaos pressed forwards, into the teeth of the fire, because there was little else they could do. And because the eyes of the Everchosen were upon them. Canto parried a halberd and hacked down its owner, even as he caught sight of the battle-standard of the Swords of Chaos rising above the melee. He couldn’t say where they’d come from, or when they’d arrived, but they were here now, and where his Swords went, the Three-Eyed King would not be far behind.
A lead bullet struck his armour and caromed off into the press of battle. Canto spun and rammed his sword through an open doorway, killing the handgunner. He forced his way into the structure beyond, the taproom of a mostly empty tavern. Women and children cowered behind a barricade of tables, as men in the livery of Stirland raced to intercept him. Canto gutted the first to reach him, and beheaded the second. A sword shattered on his daemon-forged armour, and he turned, grabbing its wielder by the throat. He shoved the man back and slammed him against a support beam.
Canto tilted his head, looking up. He smelt smoke, coming from above. Some fool had set fire to the thatch. He looked back at the man he held pinned. The swordsman struggled uselessly in his grip. Ineffectual fists pounded on his arm. Canto considered snapping his neck. Then, without quite knowing why, he released him. ‘Get your women and children and go. Out the back. Find a hole and hide, if you can. Or die. It makes no difference to me,’ he said, stepping back. The swordsman stared at him. Canto turned away, and stepped back out onto the street. As his foot touched the cobbles, he was already regretting his mercy.
Then, it wasn’t really mercy, was it? Middenheim was doomed, and its people with it. There would be no door strong enough, no hole deep enough to keep out the followers of the Dark Gods when the battle was won. When the last defenders fell, then the true horror would begin. Archaon had promised this city to the gods, and the word of the Everchosen was law.
As if the gods had heard his thoughts and wished to punish him, a lance slammed into his side, knocking him to one knee. His armour had been forged by the daemonsmiths of Zharr Naggrund and the mortal weapon merely splintered, peeling away as it struck him. Even so, the force of the blow was enough to rattle his brains, and he reeled, off balance. The knight galloped past, freeing a heavy morning star from his saddle as he did so. The spiked ball crashed down on Canto’s helm. He lurched back, slamming into the doorway of the building. The horse reared over him, hooves lashing out. Canto snarled a curse and lunged forwards, driving his shoulder into the animal’s midsection.
The horse toppled with a squeal, carrying its rider with it. Canto dispatched both swiftly. But even as he wrenched his blade free of the knight’s shuddering body, he saw that his attacker hadn’t been alone. The Knights Panther had ploughed through the jammed ranks of the horde, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake. It was a suicidal endeavour, but it had a purpose. Most of them had already been pulled from their saddles, but some still rode on, intent on their quarry – Archaon himself. One of the knights roared a challenge as he spurred his horse forwards, and raised a single-bladed war-axe in readiness for a killing blow.
The Everchosen was mounted upon a coal-black nightmare of a beast, with eyes like burning embers and hooves which split the stones they trod upon. Its fanged maw champed hungrily at its iron bit as Archaon hauled back on the reins and turned the animal to face his challenger. The menace of the steed was nothing compared to that of its rider. It was the first time Canto had seen the Everchosen in the flesh.
Archaon was taller and broader than most who fought under his banner and his armour was far more ornate, its plates covered in lines of scrawled script, strange runes and abominable sigils which made even the most puissant sorcerer weep with fear. Too, it seemed to be of all colours and none, shifting as it caught the light through a vast spectrum of hues wholly unknown to man. Canto had heard that the armour had belonged to Morkar the Uniter, First Chosen of Chaos, in the dim, ancient days of the past.
In his hand, Archaon held a heavy sword – the infamous Slayer of Kings. The blade writhed with barely contained power, and leering faces formed and dissolved on its surface as he brought it up and sent it slamming down through his challenger’s shield and into the body below. The knight fell from his saddle as his horse thundered past. His death did not deter his comrades, however. Indeed, it seemed to only spur them on.
Canto watched in incredulity as the Everchosen was surrounded and separated from his bodyguards by the remaining knights. Those chosen to keep the Swords of Chaos at bay did so with reckless abandon, fighting furiously, with no thought for their own well-being. The remaining trio engaged Archaon. Two came at him from either side, while the third hung back. As soon as Archaon had turned to deal with his companions, the knight kicked his steed into motion and galloped towards the Everchosen.
Time stopped. The world grew still and silent. Canto held his breath. Archaon was the Chosen of Chaos, the man before whom all the daemons of the world bowed. But he was still a man. He could still be killed, and a blade to the back would do the job as easily as a cannonball or a warhammer in the hands of the Herald of Sigmar himself.
Against his better judgement, Canto looked up. The sky still moved. The clouds writhed and became faces, before breaking apart and becoming just clouds again. The gods were watching. Now would be a good time to pretend he hadn’t seen anything, that he was elsewhere. Pretend you’re not here, he hissed to himself. Let the gods look after their own.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, Canto hurled himself forwards. His blade hewed through the horse’s legs, and the animal fell screaming. Its rider toppled from the saddle, but came to his feet a moment later. His sword slammed into Canto’s and they duelled over the body of the dying horse, but only for a moment. The man was hurt, and perhaps even dying, even as his sword arm faltered and Canto’s sword landed on his shoulder, driving him to his knees. The dawi zharr-forged blade cut through the knight’s heavy armour with ease and he flopped across the body of his steed, dead.
Canto jerked his weapon free of the body. ‘You have my thanks, warrior,’ a voice rumbled. Canto turned. The Three-Eyed King looked down at him, and Canto wondered how far away Kislev was. Archaon looked down, at the body of the knight, and then back up, taking in Canto’s unadorned armour. Canto stepped back, suddenly conscious of the lack of devotional markings on the baroque plates of black iron. He was called ‘Unsworn’ for a good reason; he had never climbed the eight hundred and eighty-eight steps to the Skull Throne, or hacked his way into Nurgle’s Garden looking for a patron. The gods couldn’t be trusted. They gave a man everything he wanted, even when he begged them to stop.