Valten hurled himself from the saddle even as his horse collapsed. He crashed down on the steps of the Temple of Ulric. Archaon spurred his horse on and leaned out to skewer the fallen Herald. Valten, reacting with superhuman speed, caught the blow on Ghal Maraz’s haft. He twisted the hammer, shoving the blade aside. The daemon-horse reared up, and Valten surged to his feet. His hammer thudded into the animal’s scarred flank. The beast cried out in pain, and it stumbled away. Archaon snarled in rage and chopped down at Valten again and again. One of the blows caught Valten, opening a bloody gash in his shoulder.
The Herald of Sigmar staggered back. Archaon wheeled his steed about, intent on finishing what he’d started. His mount slammed into Valten, and sent the latter sprawling. As Valten tried to get to his feet, Archaon’s sword tore through his cuirass.
Valten sank back down, and for a moment, Canto thought the fight was done. But, then Valten heaved himself to his feet, and he seemed suffused with a golden, painful light. Canto raised a hand protectively in front of his eyes, and he heard a rattling, hollow moan rise from the stiff shapes of the Swords of Chaos.
Archaon’s steed retreated, shying from the light. It gibbered and shrieked, and no amount of cursing from Archaon could bring the beast under control. The Everchosen swung himself down from the saddle and started towards his opponent. As he entered the glow of the light, steam rose from his armour, and he seemed to shrink into himself. But he pressed forward nonetheless. Valten strode to meet him.
They met with a sound like thunder. Ghal Maraz connected with the Slayer of Kings, and Canto was nearly knocked from his saddle by the echo of the impact. Windows shattered across the plaza, and the Ulricsmund shook. The two warriors traded blows, moving back and forth in an intricate waltz of destruction. Archaon stepped aside as Ghal Maraz drove down, and cobbles exploded into fragments. Valten leaned away from the Slayer of Kings’s bite, and a wall or statue earned a new scar. When the weapons connected, the air shuddered and twisted, and each time the Swords of Chaos groaned as if in pain.
Their fight took them up the steps of the Temple of Ulric. First one had the advantage, and then the other. Neither gave ground. Canto watched, unable to tear his eyes away, though the power that swirled and snarled about the two figures threatened to blind him. Two destinies were at war, and the skeins of fate strained to contain their struggle. The rest of the battle faded into the background… heroes lived, fought and died in their dozens, but this was the only battle that mattered. The future would be decided by either the Skull-Splitter or the Slayer of Kings.
Or, perhaps not.
A figure, reeking of blood and ice, clad in scorched furs, darted suddenly through the smoke. For an instant, Canto thought it was a wolf. Then he saw it was a man, and felt something tense within him. The man radiated power – dark, brooding and wild. He sprang up the steps of the temple, bounding towards the duellists. ‘Stay your hand, servant of ruin,’ he howled, in a voice which was at once human and something greater. ‘This is my city, and you will despoil it no more!’
‘Gregor – no!’ Valten cried, flinging out a hand. The newcomer froze, half-crouched, like a wolf ready to spring. Magic bled from him, and the air about him was thick with snow and frost. ‘This is my fight. This is the moment I was born for, and you well know it, Gregor Martak. And even if its outcome is not to your liking, neither you nor Ulric shall interfere.’
The air vibrated with a growl that came from everywhere and nowhere at once. To Canto, it was as if the city itself were a slumbering beast now stirring. Archaon hefted his blade in both hands and said, ‘Growl all you like, old god. You are dead, and your city with you. And that shell you cower in is soon to join you, Supreme Patriarch or no.’
‘Maybe so, spawn of damnation,’ the newcomer growled, ‘but even dead, a wolf can bite. And when it does, it does not let go.’
‘Bite away and break your teeth, beast-god. My time is now,’ Archaon snapped.
‘No,’ Valten said. ‘Our time is now.’
Silence fell as the three men faced one another. Archaon slid forwards, blade raised. Valten moved to meet him. Canto longed to draw his sword, but he could not, nor did he know why he felt so. Who are you planning to help this time, Unsworn? What god do you serve? He pushed the thought aside. Something was happening on the steps. Something no one but him seemed to notice. He squinted, trying to see through the greasy envelope of smoke and the harsh light of the fire.
A sense of wrongness pervaded the air, as the shadows cast by the firelight seemed to congeal. A mote of darkness, which grew, like a rat-hole in an otherwise unblemished wall. Where before there had only been a conjunction of firelight, drifting ash and darkness, there was now something vast and verminous. It sprang too swiftly for Canto to get a clear look at it, but he thought it must be a skaven, although of great size. He caught only the glint of a blade. He could not even tell who it was heading for, whether its target was Archaon or Valten. His answer came a moment later.
‘Valten, behind you,’ Martak roared, flinging up his hands. With almost treacle-slowness, Valten and Archaon both turned. The triple blade hissed as it whipped through the air and struck Valten cleanly in the neck. The Herald of Sigmar made a sound like a sigh as his head tumbled from his shoulders. Archaon lunged forward and caught his body as it fell, roaring in outrage. From the darkness came a sound like the scurrying of myriad rats, and a whisper of mocking laughter. Then it was gone.
Archaon sat for a time, cradling the body of his enemy. ‘He was mine,’ he said. He looked up. The Eye of Sheerian flared like a dying star on his brow, and Canto felt a wave of incandescent heat wash over him. ‘Mine.’ Archaon’s rage was a force unto itself, burning clean the smoke and driving back all shadows. Above the city, the sky buckled and the clouds tore open as a bolt of sorcerous lightning slammed down. A portion of the temple dome collapsed with an explosive boom. Smoke billowed out through the temple doors and swept down the steps. Archaon set Valten’s body aside and rose.
‘He was never yours,’ Martak rasped. He tapped the side of his head. ‘This was never preordained, not in the way you think. It was a game. And it has been won.’ His hands twitched and he stepped forward. ‘But I have never been very good at games.’ His hands flexed and the air ruptured as a great bolt of amber and ice shot towards Archaon.
Archaon split the bolt in two with his sword. More blades followed as Martak advanced slowly, tears streaming down his face. Archaon smashed them aside one by one. Shuddering, eyes white and hoarfrost crackling across his flesh, Martak thrust his hands out and a howling blizzard, composed of a million glinting shards of amber, enveloped the Everchosen. Shreds of his cloak slipped from its obscuring pall, and Canto felt his heart lurch in his chest.
Archaon emerged from the blizzard, hand outstretched. He caught Martak about the throat and lifted him high. ‘The only game that matters is mine, wizard. Not yours, not that of the withered godspark in you which fades even now, and not even those of the Dark Gods themselves. Only mine. But you were right. It has been won.’
Martak twisted in his grip, howling like a beast. A knife appeared in his hand, and he thrust it into a gap in Archaon’s armour, eliciting a scream. Archaon dropped him and staggered back, clutching at the wound, which smoked and steamed like melting ice. Martak rose up, eyes blazing. ‘Even in death, a wolf can still bite. And what it bites, it holds,’ he growled. ‘You will not leave Middenheim alive, Everchosen. Whatever else happens, you will die here.’