‘Yes, he will,’ a voice growled. Volker looked up into a pair of yellow eyes. ‘Up, boy,’ Gregor Martak growled. His furs were scorched and blackened, and his arms and face were streaked with blood. Volker knew, without knowing how, that it was not merely the wizard who regarded him, but something else as well. Something old and powerful, but diminished in some way. The wizard hauled him to his feet with ease, sparing not a glance for Brunner’s body. Martak’s eyes narrowed. ‘Volker,’ he rasped. ‘One of Leitdorf’s lot, from Heldenhame.’
‘I–’ Volker began.
‘Quiet.’ Martak’s eyes were unfocused, as if he were listening to something. ‘You survived Heldenhame, Altdorf and everything in between. You might even survive this, where braver men did not.’ The yellow eyes looked down at Brunner. ‘The time for heroes is past, Wendel Volker. Wolves are not heroes. They are not brave, or honourable. Wolves are survivors. The coming world needs survivors.’
Volker struggled against Martak’s grip. The wizard shook himself and grinned savagely. ‘It’s the end, boy. You can feel it, can’t you?’
Volker’s lips tried to form a denial, but no words came. Men were fighting and dying around them, but no one seemed to notice them. Martak laughed harshly. He grabbed hold of Volker’s chin. ‘It’s like a weight in your chest, a moment of pain stretched out to interminable length, until death becomes merely release.’ His chapped, bleeding lips peeled back from long, yellow teeth. ‘But not for you. Not yet. You must tell the Emperor what has happened. You must show him what I now show you.’ Martak dragged Volker close. The fingers clutching Volker’s chin felt like ice. ‘You must claim my debt.’
Images filled Volker’s mind – a shadowy shape creeping through the Fauschlag; the snuffing of the Flame of Ulric; and worst of all, a pulsing, heaving tear in the skin of reality itself. Volker screamed as the last image ate its way into his memories like acid. He tried to pull himself free of the wizard, but Martak’s grip was like iron. He felt cold and hot all at once, and a cloud of frost exploded from his mouth. His heart hammered, as if straining to free itself of his chest, and he thought that he might die as his insides filled up with ice and snow and all of the fury of winter and war.
‘No,’ he heard Martak growl. ‘No, you will not die, Wendel Volker. Not until you have done as I command.’
Panic spread like wildfire through the Middenheim companies, fanned to greater fury by the bludgeoning advance of the Swords of Chaos. Canto, still astride his cursing steed, could only marvel at the sheer, dogged relentlessness of Archaon’s warriors. They fought like automatons. There was never a wasted motion or excess of force. As soon as one enemy fell from their path they moved on to the next without hesitation. They fought in silence as well, uttering no battle cries or even grunts of pain when a blow struck home.
Archaon, in contrast, was all sound and fury. He was the centre of the whirlwind, and he seemed to grow angrier the more foes he dispatched. Men were trampled beneath the hooves of his daemon steed, and banners were chopped down and trodden into the thick streams of blood which ran between the cobbles. One moment, he was amidst a desperate scrum of hard-pressed soldiers. The next, it had collapsed into a howling mass of terrified humanity, each seeking to get as far as possible from the roaring monster who had come to claim them.
The Everchosen spurred his mount through the madness, ignoring the fleeing soldiers. Canto knew who he was looking for and he spurred his own beast in pursuit, the whispers of the gods filling his mind. He tried to ignore them, but it was hard. Harder than it had ever been before. They were not asking that he follow their chosen champion – they demanded it. And Canto had neither the strength nor the courage to do otherwise.
So he galloped in Archaon’s wake, and watched as the last defenders of Middenheim parted before the Three-Eyed King, or were ridden down. ‘Where are you, Herald?’ Archaon bellowed, as his horse reared and screamed. ‘Where are you, beloved of Sigmar? I am here! Face me, and end this farce. How many more must die for you?’
Archaon glared about him, his breath rasping from within his helmet. ‘Face me, damn you. I will not be denied now – not now! I have broken your army, I have gutted your city… Where are you?’
Canto jerked on his mount’s reins, bringing it to a halt behind Archaon. The latter glanced at him. ‘Where is he, Unsworn? Where is he?’ he demanded, and Canto felt a moment of uncertainty as he noted the pleading tone of Archaon’s words.
‘I am here,’ a voice said, and each word struck the air like a hammer-blow. Canto shuddered as the echo of that voice rose over the square, and the sounds of battle faded. A wind rose, carrying smoke with it, isolating them from the madness that still consumed the world around them. ‘I am here, Diederick Kastner,’ Valten said. His words were punctuated by the slow clop-clop-clop of his horse’s hooves.
‘Do not say that name,’ Archaon said, his voice calmer than it had been a moment ago. ‘You have not earned the right to say that name. You are not him.’
‘No, I am not. I thought, once, that I might be… But that is not my fate,’ Valten said. ‘And I am thankful for it. I am thankful that my part in this… farce, as you call it, is almost done. And that I will not have to see the horror that comes next.’
‘Coward,’ Archaon said.
‘No. Cowardice is not acceptance. Cowardice is tearing down the foundations of heaven because you cannot bear its light. Cowardice is blaming gods for the vagaries of men. Cowardice is choosing damnation over death, and casting a people on the fire to assuage your wounded soul.’ Valten looked up, and heaved a long, sad sigh. ‘I see so much now. I see all of the roads not taken, and I see how small your masters are.’ He looked at Archaon. ‘They drove their greatest heroes and warriors into my path like sheep, all to spare you this moment. Because even now… they doubt you. They doubt, and you can feel it. Why else would you be so determined to face me?’
‘You do not deserve to bear that hammer,’ Archaon said. ‘You do not deserve any of it.’
‘No.’ Valten smiled gently. ‘But you did.’ He lifted Ghal Maraz. ‘Once, I think, this was meant for you. But the claws of Chaos pluck even the thinnest strands of fate. And so it has come to this.’ His smile shifted, becoming harder. ‘Two sons of many fathers, forgotten mothers and a shared moment.’ He extended the hammer. ‘The gods are watching, Everchosen. Let us give them a show.’
‘What do you know of gods?’ Archaon snarled. ‘You know nothing.’
‘I know that if you want this city, this world, you must earn it.’ Valten urged his horse forwards and Archaon did the same. Both animals seemed almost as eager for the fray as their riders, and the shrieks and snarls of the one were matched by the whinnying challenge of the other. Canto tried to follow, but found himself unable to move. He was not here to participate, but to watch. The Swords of Chaos spread out around him, a silent audience for the contest to come. He felt no relief, and wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere, anywhere other than here.
Archaon leaned forward, and raised his sword. Valten swung his hammer, and Archaon’s shield buckled under the impact. The Everchosen rocked in his saddle. He parried a blow that would have taken off his head, and his sword wailed like a lost soul as its blade crashed against the flat of the hammer’s head. As they broke apart, Archaon’s steed lunged and sank its fangs into the throat of Valten’s horse. With a wet wrench, the daemon steed tore out the other animal’s throat.