‘Do not pity him. He gambled, and lost. Would that he had succeeded,’ he said.
‘It’s not him I pity,’ Staahl snapped. ‘It’s us. We could have used him and his men, Axel. Instead, he sacrificed them in a foolhardy attempt at glory. Every sword counts, and he took good men into death with him.’
‘Does it matter where they die?’ Greiss growled, bristling. He gestured at the men below with his hammer. ‘That is why they – why we – are here, you fat old fool. To fight and die, so that the Emperor might live one more day. We are bleeding them. Nothing more.’
‘No.’
They all turned as one, Martak included. The fragment of Ulric within him twitched as he caught sight of Valten ascending the steps. Down below, more men hastily squeezed into the ranks. ‘No, we are not just a sacrifice, Master Greiss. In the end, perhaps. When the war is done, and scribes record the events of this day, that is what they might say of us. But here and now, we are so much more.’ The trio of Grand Masters stepped aside as Valten strode past them. He looked up at the temple for a moment, and then turned back to them. ‘Here and now, we are the Empire of Sigmar. Here and now, we are the City of the White Wolf. Middenheim stands. And while it does, so too does the world.’ He raised his voice, pitching it to carry. Down below, the noise of men preparing for war had dimmed. Martak realised that almost every eye in the square was upon them.
As cheers rose up from below, Valten turned back to Martak and the others. Greiss and his fellow knights were staring at him as if, for the first time, they suddenly understood that Valten was not merely a jumped-up blacksmith in borrowed armour, but something else entirely. Valten met Martak’s gaze. The part of the wizard which was Ulric recognised the spark of… otherness in the man before him. It was only a spark, but it might grow into a roaring flame. One to cleanse the stones of the Fauschlag of the filth that crept over them. If it was given the time.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, Valten’s smile faded, becoming sad. He shook his head slightly, a gesture so infinitesimal that Martak knew he alone had seen it. And in his soul, Ulric howled mournfully.
Greiss cleared his throat. ‘A very pretty speech, blacksmith. But speeches alone won’t see us safely to another sunrise.’
Valten turned to the old knight. ‘No, for that we’ll have to trust in Altdorf steel, Nuln gunpowder and Middenheim courage.’ He paused, as if taking stock of the situation. Then, he continued. ‘We hoped that the Fauschlag would protect us. That the walls of Middenheim would keep the enemy at bay for weeks, if not months.’ He looked at each of the gathered officers in turn. ‘We hoped that the Emperor might rally the rest of the Empire from Averheim, and perhaps even relieve us here. That together, we could drive the enemy back into the Wastes.’ He grinned. ‘Doesn’t seem very likely now, does it?’
Staahl snorted, and several of the captains chuckled. Greiss and Dostov frowned. Martak couldn’t restrain a harsh cackle. He felt Ulric growl unappreciatively within him; the wolf-god wasn’t, by nature, fatalistic. Nor did he have a sense of humour.
‘The enemy is inside the walls. All we can do now is hope to bear the brunt of his fury, and break his back when he exhausts himself,’ Valten continued. He looked at Martak. ‘If we can bring Archaon to battle, then we have a chance. If the Three-Eyed King falls, his army will disintegrate. Middenheim might well be consumed in that conflagration, but that is a small price to pay for victory.’
Ulric snarled in agreement within Martak’s soul, and Valten smiled slightly, as if he’d heard the god’s voice. Martak wondered just how much Valten saw. If they survived the coming conflict, he intended to ask him. He heard the winding howl of a war-horn, and turned. ‘It looks like we’ll have no trouble with the first part of that plan,’ Martak murmured.
Along the southern edge of the square, the foe had begun to arrive. Black-armoured northlanders chanted and bellowed, clashing their weapons and shaking their shields in furious tumult. Drums boomed back, deep in their ranks. Daemons capered about them, hurling incoherent threats at the men standing before the Temple of Ulric. Beastmen paced at the fringes of the gathering horde, throwing back their heads to add their roars and wildcat screams to the dreadful clangour. But, even as their numbers swelled, they did not move to cross the square and attack.
‘They’re waiting for their master to arrive,’ Valten said. He stared at the gathering ranks of the enemy, as if in search of Archaon.
‘Biggest dog gets first bite,’ Martak grunted. He could feel the essence of the wolf-god gathering itself in him, ready for the fury to come. His breath came in pale puffs, and those men closest to him stepped back nervously.
Suddenly, the air was split by the sound of beating wings. It was as if a hundred thousand crows had chosen that moment to fill the air above the square. The men on the steps cried out in alarm, and clapped their hands to their ears as the thunderous wingbeats threatened their eardrums. Even Valten staggered slightly as the air rippled with the shadows of diving, swooping birds. Martak alone stood tall.
His eyes narrowed, and his hand shot out to catch hold of the end of a spear moments before it lanced through Valten’s chest. The whirring, shifting shadows parted, and the spear’s wielder was revealed – a snarling beastman, with wide, black-feathered wings rising from his broad back. Malagor, the Dark Omen, Best-Loved of the Dark Gods, Ulric’s voice growled in his mind. Martak’s lips skinned back from his teeth, and he returned Malagor’s snarl in kind. The tableau held for a moment, as man and beast stared at one another. Martak’s arm trembled as he slowly forced the spear back. Malagor’s wings beat heavily, as it tried to drive the weapon forwards. Then, in a clap of darkling thunder, the creature was gone.
On the other side of the square, the gathered beastmen suddenly broke ranks and pelted forwards, as if Malagor’s attack had been a signal. They brayed wildly and brandished crude weapons as they charged in a scattered, undisciplined mass towards the gleaming ranks of spears and halberds.
Valten shook himself, as if emerging from a dream. He raised his hammer. ‘To your places, brothers, captains, masters… May Sigmar and Ulric both watch over you,’ he said, looking at the others. They snapped into motion, hurrying to their positions, as down below orders rang out along the Empire battle-line, drums rattled and horns blared. Valten looked at Martak. ‘They want me dead,’ he murmured. ‘They do not want their chosen weapon to meet me in combat.’
‘Well, let’s disappoint them, then,’ Martak growled. He looked out over the square, eyes narrowed. Whatever madness had seized the beastherds had not consumed the rest of Archaon’s army. Unsupported as they were, and out in the open, the beastmen were being cut to ribbons by volleys of crossbow bolts and gunfire. Behind Martak, the great cannons began to bellow, and soon cannonballs bounced across the square, ploughing into the frenzied ranks of charging beastmen. Mortar shells and rockets hammered the disorganised herds, hurling broken corpses through the smoke-stained air. A looming ghorgon, massive jaws snapping hungrily, toppled backwards as a cannonball smashed through its skull, and crushed a dozen of its lesser kin.
A shriek from above tore Martak’s attentions from the carnage being wrought in the square. He and Valten looked up, to see a swirling murder of crows descend on the artillery at the top of the steps. Gunners cried out in fear and pain as Malagor swept through them, plucking eyes and raking flesh. The Dark Omen was monstrous and unstoppable, and his body dissolved into a shower of feathers only to reform elsewhere to wreak more havoc. Even as the bodies of those he’d slain tumbled down the steps, Malagor vanished, the thunder of wings echoing in his wake.