‘Kneel,’ Archaon rumbled.
‘Rather not – trick knee,’ Canto said, but he was already sinking down even as the words left his lips. The battle still raged about them, but here, in this moment, he felt the weight of a terrible silence descend on him. The clangour of war was muted and dull. He refused to look up, because he knew that if he did, something would be looking down at him from the wide, hungry sky. For the first time, the gods would see him. You’ve done it now, fool, he thought. You’ve got their interest now, and you know what that means.
Except he didn’t, not really. Oh he’d seen what could happen, but he’d spent centuries avoiding the gazes of the gods. He’d done just enough, but never too much. Just enough to survive, but never enough to prosper. A rat hiding in a midden heap. His heart stuttered in its rhythm, and his armour rattled.
‘Canto the Unsworn,’ Archaon said. He sounded amused. Canto didn’t bother to wonder how Archaon knew his name. The gods had likely whispered it in his ear. ‘You rode with the Gorewolf, and before him, Tzerpichore the Unwritten.’ Archaon cocked his head. ‘They say Tzerpichore’s great tortoise of iron and crystal still walks the Wastes, searching for its master.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Canto said. ‘And it does.’
‘There are few men these days who do not find sanctuary in one god or another’s shadow. But you stand apart. Is that due to fear or pride, I wonder?’
‘Fear,’ Canto croaked. Archaon’s eyes shone like stars, and he felt the strange heat of a cold fire wash over him. It was as if he were being flayed from the inside out, opened up so the Everchosen could examine every nook and cranny of his black and blasted soul.
‘What do you fear?’
‘Death. Madness. Change.’ The words slipped out before Canto could stop them. They hung on the air, like the notes of a song. He felt the hideous interest intensify, and knew what a mouse must feel when it is caught by a cat. Several cats, in fact. And their king was glaring down at him, considering where to insert his claws.
‘I was damned from the first breath that I took. All men are,’ Archaon said, almost gently. ‘We change from what we were with every moment and hour that passes, losing ourselves the way a serpent loses its skin. To hold on to the old, that is madness. To strive against the current, that is madness. There is nothing to fear, Unsworn. Not now. The worst has happened. The horns of doom have sounded, and the pillars of heaven and earth come crashing down.’ His great blade stretched out. Canto closed his eyes. He saw his life – a life of running and fighting and colours and sounds and somewhere, out there, far away, he thought he could feel the slow rumble of the tortoise as it continued on its way through the Chaos Wastes, and he felt a moment of inexplicable sadness.
There was a soft sound, and he opened his eyes as the flat of Archaon’s blade touched his shoulder. ‘Rise, and be fearless. Rise, and find sanctuary in my shadow, Unsworn. We ride for ruin, and our victory is assured.’ Then the sword was lifted, and Archaon’s steed reared, pawing the air with an ear-splitting shriek.
Time snapped back into focus. Noise washed over Canto, staggering him. A howling, wolf-cloaked warrior charged towards him, hammer swinging out, and he rose to his feet smoothly. He swept his sword out and disembowelled his attacker. A riderless horse, its flesh writhing with thorns and its eyes made of smoking gemstones, galloped past, snorting and kicking. Like a gift from the gods, Canto thought, even as his hand snapped out to catch hold of its bloody bridle.
FOUR
Gregor Martak climbed the broad steps of the Temple of Ulric, looking about him with satisfaction. Whether that satisfaction was solely his or was shared by the power now inhabiting his body, he couldn’t say, but he thought Ulric must approve of Valten’s preparations. The Herald of Sigmar was no fool, whatever his origins.
He had garrisoned the cloisters and processionals of the eastern and western wings of the temple with bands of state troops, ensuring that the flanks and rear of their position were well defended. The bulk of the surviving forces under his command now occupied the northern edge of the vast cobbled square which sat before the temple’s main entrance. Deep ranks of troops stood before the steps, their lines anchored by the wings of the temple. Men of Averland, Ostermark and the Reikland stood ready to the east, their fire-torn standards whipping in the unnatural wind that curled through the streets of Middenheim. To the west, Talabheimers stood firm alongside the musters of Altdorf and Stirland. The honour of the centre position had been given to their hosts, who stood in the shadow of their god, halberds and crossbows ready for the storm to come.
The survivors of the various knightly orders who had chosen to make Middenheim their burying ground stood behind the centre. The Knights of the White Wolf, the Gryphon Legion, the Knights of the Black Bear, and the Knights of the Broken Sword were all in evidence. There were others scattered throughout the city, fighting a desperate holding action or mounting suicidal counter-attacks. The knightly orders had ever been the mailed fist of the Empire, and in these final hours most seemed determined to get in as many blows as possible, even if that meant their own annihilation.
Deployed at the top of the steps, before the doors of the temple, were the remnants of Middenheim’s once-proud Grand Battery. Every gun that could be salvaged from the walls and keeps of the city had been, and they were now arrayed so as to belch fire and destruction into the enemy whose approach even now caused the street to shake slightly.
Martak joined a group of men at the top of the steps, before the battery. A ragtag group of captains, sergeants, and mercenary commanders stood in tense discussion. Martak recognised a few of them, including the raven-haired Torben Badenov, the peg-legged Marienburger Edvard van der Kraal, and the loutish Voland, a hedge-knight from Tilea. Nearby, Axel Greiss was arguing with two of his fellow Grand Masters, Nicolai Dostov of the Gryphon Legion and Volg Staahl, the Preceptor of the Order of the Black Bear. The latter nodded to Martak and said, ‘Look, Martak’s here. The day is saved.’
Greiss whirled. He glared at Martak, but only for a moment. ‘Glad you could join us, wizard,’ he muttered, turning back to the others. ‘Tell him what you told me, Staahl.’
Dostov and Staahl shared a look. The other man’s dislike of Martak was well known, and the wizard wondered if Greiss’s sudden desire to include him in their hastily convened war council surprised them. Like Greiss, they were older men. Dostov, a white-moustachioed Kislevite clad in the banded mail and back banner in the shape of a pair of wings which marked a warrior of the Gryphon Legion, was lean and hard-faced. Staahl, on the other hand, was a keg with legs. With his ash-smeared plate armour and ragged bear-skin cloak, he resembled nothing so much as a particularly fat, disreputable bear.
‘Achendorf is dead. Took his knights and made a try for the head of the beast, poor fool,’ Staahl rumbled. Dostov frowned, but said nothing. Greiss snorted.