But, as he made to extricate himself from the situation, a large hand fastened itself around his ankle. He looked down, into the grinning, battered features of his opponent. ‘Gharad is angry. He has been stomped on by many horses, little man,’ the northman said, as he yanked Volker off his feet. ‘Let Gharad show you how it feels.’ Gharad slammed a bloody fist down on Volker’s chest, denting his cuirass and driving all of the air from his lungs.
The northman tore Volker’s gorget loose and flung it aside before fastening his thick fingers around Volker’s throat. Gharad hunched over him as horses stomped and whinnied around them. Volker clawed at his opponent’s wrists, trying to break his grip. Gharad grinned down at him. ‘Goodbye, little man. Gharad the Ox has enjoyed killing–’ The northman’s eyes crossed, and his grin slipped. With a sigh, he slumped over Volker, revealing a falchion, three throwing daggers and a hand-axe embedded in his back.
Volker heaved the dead weight off him, and looked up at Brunner. ‘Thanks,’ he gasped, as he rubbed his aching throat.
‘Come on,’ Brunner said, jerking his falchion free of the fallen northman.
‘What?’ Volker said, shoving himself to his feet. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Cut off the head, and the body dies,’ Brunner spat. There was a dark stain on his side, and he grimaced as he pressed a hand to it. He jerked his chin towards Archaon. The Three-Eyed King was impossible to miss, despite the confusion. As they watched, he cut down a howling knight. ‘Kill him, we get out of this alive.’
‘I don’t like our odds,’ Volker wheezed. Something in his chest scraped. The blow from the northman’s mace had, at the very least, cracked his ribs.
‘I fought my way across half the Empire, through the walking dead, beastmen and worse things, all to get here,’ Brunner growled. ‘Never tell me the odds.’
Volker shook himself and looked around. The bulk of the Empire troops still held their place, despite the massed ranks of the enemy that pressed against them. But Volker had commanded enough men to see that the Middenheimers were close to collapse. The halberdiers still hacked and thrust at their enemies with grim resolve, but exhaustion was taking its toll, and Greiss and his fur-clad maniacs charging through the centre of their own lines hadn’t helped matters. The enemy, on the other hand, seemed tireless, and without number. Every northman who fell was quickly replaced by two more; but there were no fresh troops to throw into the gaps growing in the defenders’ ranks. What reinforcements there were, were busy trying to hold off the skaven pouring out of the Temple of Ulric.
That fact, in the end, made Volker’s decision for him. If Archaon fell, the Chaos attack might disintegrate, easing the pressure on the embattled defenders. Evidently Brunner thought the same. He gestured with his sword. ‘By all means, lead the way.’ You lunatic, he added, in his head. Brunner smirked, as if he’d heard Volker’s thoughts, and turned.
The bounty-hunter moved through the press of battle like a shark. His falchion snaked out left and right, cutting through legs or chopping into bellies. Volker did his best to keep up, smashing aside tribesmen with his recovered shield and sword, despite the pain in his chest. At times, through the smoke that now obscured most of the square, he caught sight of the battle going on atop the steps of the Temple of Ulric. Valten was there, his golden armour reflecting the light of the fires as he employed Ghal Maraz with lethal efficiency. The Herald of Sigmar had ploughed into the ratmen like a battering ram, and broken, twitching bodies flew into the air with every swing of his hammer.
‘There he is,’ Brunner shouted. He grabbed Volker and gestured with his bloody falchion. Volker peered through the smoke and saw their quarry. Archaon’s horse reared as the Three-Eyed King chopped through a bevy of thrusting spears.
‘What do we do?’ Volker said.
Brunner smiled, pulled one of the pistols from his bandolier and fired. To Volker’s surprise, Archaon tumbled from his saddle. ‘What–?’ Volker said.
‘Wyrdstone bullet,’ Brunner said, tossing aside the smoking pistol. A moment later, the bounty-hunter was ducking past the daemonic steed’s flailing hooves, and arrowing towards its rider. Volker tried to follow him, but he found himself preoccupied by the attentions of one of the Chaos knights who made up Archaon’s bodyguard. He caught a hoof on his shield, and felt a shiver of pain run through him. His sword sliced out, driving back a horse and rider. He saw Brunner’s falchion flash down, only to be intercepted at the last moment by Archaon’s blade.
Archaon forced Brunner back, and rose to his full height. Green smoke rose from the hole in his armour where Brunner’s bullet had struck home. To his credit, the bounty-hunter didn’t seem impressed. He lunged, and their blades came together with a barely audible screech. Volker saw Brunner’s free hand flit to his vambrace, and then something sharp flashed and Archaon roared. The Lord of the End Times stepped back and groped for the throwing blade that had sprouted from between the plates of his cuirass. Brunner drew another pistol, his last, and fired. Or tried to, at least. There was a puff of smoke, followed by a curse from Brunner, and then Archaon lunged forwards, thrusting his sword before him like a lance.
The tip of the sword emerged from Brunner’s back and he was lifted off his feet. Archaon held him aloft for a moment, and then, with seemingly little effort, swept the sword to the side and slung the bounty-hunter off. Brunner hit the street hard, with a sound that made Volker cringe inside his armour. He took a chance and darted through a gap in the press of battle, ducking a blow which would have removed his head.
Archaon was already climbing back into the saddle when Volker reached Brunner. He sank down beside the man, but he could see that it was already too late. And not just for Brunner – he heard a roar from behind him, and turned. He saw Archaon catch a blow from Axel Greiss, Grand Master of the White Wolves, on his shield. The Grand Master recoiled, readying himself for another swing as his stallion bit and kicked at Archaon’s own mount. The White Wolves duelled with Archaon’s knights around them.
Archaon swung round in his saddle, and his sword chopped down through plate mail, flesh and bone, severing Greiss’s arm at the elbow. Greiss’s scream was cut short by Archaon’s second blow, which tore through the old knight’s torso in a welter of gore. Volker looked away as Greiss’s body slid from the saddle.
He looked down at Brunner. He realised that he’d never seen the other man’s face in the little time they’d known each other. They hadn’t been friends. Merely men in the same place at the same time, facing the same enemy. Even so, Volker felt something that might have been sadness as he looked down at the dead bounty-hunter.
Panic began to spread through the ranks of the Empire almost immediately. The troops in the centre had held their ground against the worst Archaon could throw at them, but the death of Greiss was too much, even for the most stalwart soldier. Volker couldn’t blame them. He knew a rout in the offing when he saw one, however, and he was on the wrong side of it, cut off from the obvious route of retreat by the fighting. Knots of defenders still battled on, most notably around the standards of the Order of the Black Bear and the Gryphon Legion, and to the east and west the flank forces still held, but the line had been broken.
Volker looked around desperately, trying to spot an avenue of escape. If he could reach someone – anyone – he could organise a fighting withdrawal. At the very least, they might buy themselves a few more hours. Averheim, he thought. Save as many as I can – get to Averheim. The Emperor is at Averheim. The Emperor will know what to do.