To the west, the west, the god howled.
‘Are there not enemies enough for you here?’ Martak snarled. Ice and snow rose from his hands, sweeping forward to flash-freeze a slobbering Chaos troll. The brute toppled over and shattered into a dozen chunks. Northmen filled the gap left by the troll, and hurled themselves towards him with suicidal courage. Martak, mind reeling with the fury of the god nesting within him, hastily created a shield of amber and frost, blocking the first blow. At a gesture, the shield twisted and transformed, splitting into a multitude of stabbing lances. Several of his attackers were punched off their feet, and the rest were driven back. Martak stepped forwards, gathering his strength, and gestured again. The lances bulged, cracked and split, becoming shrieking hawks, raucous crows and even a few stinging hummingbirds.
The barbarians were forced back by the swarm of mystical constructs, even as he’d hoped. Breathing heavily, he staggered back too. The state troops closed ranks to his fore, buying him a few precious moments to catch his breath. He was tired – more tired than he’d ever been. Every muscle ached, and his body felt like a wrung-out wineskin. It was no easy thing to carry the weight of a god, and he knew, with animal certainty, that even if they won the day, he would be burned to nothing by the cold fire of Ulric’s presence. Whatever happened here today, Gregor Martak was a dead man.
He smiled thinly. Then, his life expectancy had dropped to almost nothing the moment he’d been made Supreme Patriarch. And in a time of war, no less. He’d almost died ten times over in the first battle for Altdorf, and its fall almost two years later. He shook himself all over, like a dog scattering water, and sniffed the air. He caught the rank odour – like sour milk and spoiled fruit – of fell sorcery, and peered west, as Ulric had urged.
His eyes widened as he caught sight of the eldritch inferno sweeping across the western flank of the Empire’s battle-line. He could hear the screams of men and the cackling of daemons, and knew that, unless whatever magics had been unleashed there were countered, the whole flank might collapse. He cursed and looked around for Valten.
The Herald of Sigmar sat on his horse nearby, with Greiss and the other commanders. His armour was dented and scorched, and his face was drawn and haggard. He had fought in the vanguard for those first terrible moments of the attack, but had been forced back behind the shield-wall by simple necessity. Now he was trying to organise a counter-attack with Greiss, Staahl and the remaining knights.
Martak hurried towards them. ‘We ride through them, then,’ Greiss was saying, as the wizard drew close. ‘Middenheimers are bred hard, boy, and we don’t balk at necessary sacrifice.’
‘There’s a difference between necessary sacrifice, and foolishness,’ Valten retorted. For the first time since Martak had met him, the Herald of Sigmar looked angry. He seemed to loom over the knights. ‘These are our men, Greiss, and you shall not treat them as mere impediments to your glory. They are not pawns to be sacrificed, or tools to be discarded,’ Valten growled. ‘They are men. My men.’
‘Men die in battle,’ Dostov said. It was obvious whose side the Grand Master of the Gryphon Legion was on. Then, the Kislevite wasn’t unduly burdened by sentimentality.
‘Men die, but they are not ridden down like dogs by their own commanders,’ Valten said. He raised Ghal Maraz. ‘And I will split the skull of the next man who uses the phrase “necessary sacrifice” to my face in such a way again.’ He turned in his saddle, and looked down at Martak. ‘Gregor, what–?’
Martak, about to tell Valten what he had seen to the west, felt his words die on his lips as a new sound intruded over the booming report of the artillery at the top of the steps above them. From within the confines of the temple came the scream of voices and the clash of weapons. These were mingled with the rapid chatter of gunfire and dreadful chittering. Even as Valten and the others turned to look up the steps, towards the great entrance of the Temple of Ulric, the artillery crews began to hastily pivot their guns.
‘What are they doing?’ Greiss snarled. ‘The enemy is out here!’
Martak didn’t bother to remind Greiss he’d said something similar before, and been wrong then as well. Blackened and bloodied soldiers, survivors of the temple garrisons, stampeded out through the great doors, hampering the efforts of the artillery crews. They were followed by hulking, armoured rat ogres, who tore into the fleeing soldiers and artillery crews both. Great cannons were upended and sent rolling down the steps. Gun carriages shattered to matchwood. Bullet holes stitched their way along Nuln-forged gun barrels, courtesy of the skaven ratling gun teams. Powder kegs were perforated as well, and the subsequent explosion rocked the temple to its foundations. The concussive blast killed men, skaven and rat ogres besides, and only Martak’s quick thinking and magics prevented the explosion from reaching Valten and the others.
As his amber shield crackled and fell to pieces, Martak saw a fresh tide of ratmen sweep over the burning wreckage of the Grand Battery. Stormvermin and clanrats poured down the steps of the temple in a screeching flood. Valten cursed. He looked at Greiss. ‘Hold the line. I’ll deal with the vermin.’ Without waiting for the surly knight’s reply, he looked at Martak. ‘Gregor, can you–?’
Martak shook his head. ‘The western flank is collapsing. Daemon-fire is sweeping the square there, and I am needed.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘I was coming to ask for your help.’
Valten shook his head. He hesitated, and for a moment, Martak saw not the Herald of Sigmar, but the callow young blacksmith Huss had introduced him to, so many months ago. ‘It appears our journey is coming to an end,’ Valten said, fighting to be heard over the noise of battle. ‘Since Luthor vanished, I have relied on your advice more than once. It has been a pleasure to call you friend, Gregor.’ Valten bent low and reached out his hand. It was Martak’s turn to hesitate. Then, he clasped forearms with the Herald of Sigmar. Valten smiled and straightened in his saddle. ‘I do not think we will meet again, my friend.’
Then he turned, jerked on his horse’s reins, and galloped up the steps to meet the coming threat. Martak hesitated again, for just a moment. Then, with a snarl, he turned to the west. He ignored Greiss’s shouts as he began to push his way along, moving more swiftly than a man ought. He ran smoothly, his steps guided by Ulric, and in seemingly no time at all he was bulling through the ranks towards the daemon-threatened stretch of the line. As he moved, he reached out with his mind, snagging the errant winds of magic and drawing them in his wake.
I grow weak, son of Middenheim, Ulric murmured. Soon my spark shall gutter out, and you will crumble to cold ash.
‘Then we’d best take as many of the enemy with us as we can,’ Martak growled. ‘Or would you rather crawl into a hole and die?’ He heard the indignant snap of the god’s jaws and bared his teeth in satisfaction. He shoved aside a pair of spearmen, and found himself staring at a hellish inferno of dancing, multi-coloured flames. Screams of terror filled the air as men burned and died, or worse, changed. Daemons leapt and shimmered beyond the flames, cackling and chanting.
As the line of soldiers around him fell back, Martak spread his arms, calling up what strength Ulric could spare him. The heat from the fires faded, and with a single, sharp gesture, Martak snuffed them entirely. He felt his body swell with power as he drew the winds of magic into himself, bolstering the strength of the fading godspark.