He was a cool one, was the manling Emperor. He moved people like pieces on a board, and was always two or three moves ahead. Not that it had helped him at Averheim. Nonetheless, he was more formidable than the dwarf had expected. Hammerson looked at Vlad von Carstein where the vampire stood, as ever, beside Nagash. He recalled what the creature had said in the Silvale Glade, and he snorted. You’ll have a hard time supplanting that one, blood-sucker, elector or no. He’s already divided your loyalties, and you don’t even realise it.
Suddenly, alarm-horns sounded from the outer glades. Hammerson looked around, one hand following to his hammer. The air in the glade grew thick, and he could taste smoke and ash in the back of his throat, though he was nowhere near a fire. He saw Gelt stagger, and reached out to steady the human. ‘What is it, lad?’ he growled.
‘My… my head,’ Gelt said, cradling his skull. ‘I can feel it – feel them!’
Hammerson whipped around as Alarielle screamed and fell from her throne, to collapse on the dais. Both Malekith and Tyrion went to her side. ‘What in the name of Grimnir is going on?’ he snarled.
The glade was filled with a sound like tearing metal, and then a body flew into the glade. It crashed down, broken and bloodied. Hammerson recognised it as having been one of the ceremonial guards stationed outside the glade. Even as the body struck the ground, the air was filled with the stamp of cloven hooves and howls of eagerness. Nightmares made flesh streaked into the glade, before the dead guard’s body had even settled or the echoes of Alarielle’s scream had faded.
The daemons loped towards the dais, steaming blades bared, seeking flesh. And then they combusted into crackling ash as Tyrion rose to his feet, drew his blade and seared them from the fabric of the world with a blinding wave of light. Caradryan was the next to act, his halberd spinning in his grip, creating a vortex of hungry flame which enveloped another group of daemons and reduced them to greasy motes on the air.
Even before the ashes of the Incarnates’ victims had settled, a chorus of howls announced the arrival of a second, larger wave of daemons. The creatures burst into the glade from all sides, tearing through the undergrowth. Black blades glistened in the crimson hands of the hissing bloodletters as they loped towards their intended prey.
Caradryan flung out a hand and a wall of flame roared to life, catching a score of bloodletters in mid-leap. Some of the daemons survived the flames, however, and they came on, skin aflame. Caradryan set his feet and swept out his Phoenix Blade, killing one even as the rest bowled him over. Hammerson was about to go to his aid, when he heard a screech and saw the elf’s firebird plummet into the glade like a flaming comet. The great bird tore the daemons from its master, flinging them across the glade, and Caradryan sprang onto the animal’s back as it swept back towards him.
‘Master Hammerson, to your left,’ the Emperor shouted, as his runefang snaked out to block a blow that would have taken his head. Hammerson turned and caught a descending blade on the crossed hafts of his weapons.
He forced the bloodletter’s blade aside and rocked forwards, slamming the front of his helmet into the creature’s snarling features. The daemon shrieked and fell back, clawing at its face. ‘Why bother putting runes on your helmet, Gotri?’ Hammerson said, mimicking the voice of the runesmith who’d trained him. ‘That’s why, you old goat,’ he spat, as he cut the bloodletter’s legs out from under it and crushed its skull with his hammer.
The Emperor fought beside him, his steel caked in daemonic ichor. The human fought in silence, moving with the precision of a hardened veteran. Though the power he’d once wielded had been ripped from him, he was no less a warrior. Hammerson felt a moment of pride as he watched Karl Franz fight, and knew that he had made the right choice in staying. This was a man who was worthy of a dwarf oath. Even if he did ride an oversized buzzard.
Hammerson glanced at the dais as lightning flashed over his head. A nimbus of light played about Tyrion’s head and rippled from his blade to scour daemons from existence. Beside him, Teclis swept his staff out, wrenching lightning from the air and sending it snarling outwards to throw back the encroaching daemons. Near the twins, Malekith wielded his own magics, shadow-claws tearing at daemonic flesh.
As the tide of daemons pressed in, intent on reaching the Incarnates, the three were forced to fight back to back to protect the unconscious form of Alarielle. In that moment, all differences, all past conflicts, were forgotten and the last of Aenarion’s bloodline fought as one against an enemy as old as time itself.
Hammerson shook his head and smashed a leaping daemon-hound from the air, before he spun to crush the skull of another with his axe. ‘Come on, filth! Come and taste the steel of Zhufbar!’ he roared, clashing his weapons. ‘Though the Black Water might have fallen, her people still fight – come and take what you’ve got coming to you.’ The runes on his weapons flared and the air became as hot as a forge, to burn and blacken the flesh of the scuttling daemons. They fell twitching and squealing, and he finished them off quickly.
More took their place. They charged towards him, howling out hissing prayers to the Lord of Skulls, and Hammerson felt a twist in his gut. There were too many for him to fight alone. But he set his feet and hunched forwards. ‘You want me? Come and get me,’ he muttered. Before the first of the creatures could reach him, however, he heard a scream and felt a breeze. A massive wing smashed the daemons aside as the Emperor’s griffon, Deathclaw, landed in the glade. Hammerson glanced nervously up at the beast as it prowled past him, tail lashing. That nervousness faded as he saw more daemons bounding forwards. The griffon crouched, and Hammerson knew that even with the beast at his side, they’d be hard pressed. He looked up as a shadow fell across him, and saw Arkhan the Black, mounted atop his monstrous steed.
The liche seemed unconcerned with the battle raging below him. ‘A little help?’ Hammerson bellowed. Even as he spoke, he knew his words were futile. To such a creature, he was likely more use dead than alive. Arkhan turned away, as if the conflict below bored him. A knot of daemons burst past Deathclaw and flung themselves at the runesmith. Hammerson was knocked sprawling, his weapons flying from his hands. He drove a bunched fist into a leering face, and felt a flush of satisfaction as fangs snapped and the creature pitched back. But the others bore him down.
As his back hit the ground, however, the weight of the daemons vanished. He looked up and saw the creatures turning to dust. As they dissolved on the breeze, he saw Arkhan the Black looking down at him. The inscrutable liche held his gaze for a moment, and then turned away. Hammerson snorted and retrieved his weapons.
‘Don’t expect me to say thank you,’ he grunted, as he clashed his weapons and readied himself to face the next wave of foes.
Vlad von Carstein did not wait for Nagash’s permission before he leapt into battle. Let the Great Necromancer do as he saw fit; Vlad wanted nothing more than to lose himself in combat, if only for a little while.
He was frustrated and angry, and the daemons paid the price. He whirled and stamped, fighting with all the fury of an Arabyan dervish one moment, and then with the blunt force of one of the war-monks of Cathay the next. He slid from style to style, indulging in the raw physicality of combat. His sword flashed as he recalled lessons in peach orchards and vineyards, on dusty training grounds and ice-floes.