‘And what of me, O mighty Everchosen? What are your commands for me?’ Mannfred said, bowing obsequiously, as they left. Archaon climbed the dais and took down Ghal Maraz before he glanced at him.
‘Go where thou wilt, and die as you wish, leech. I have no commands for you, save that you remember whose side you have chosen, and that the gods have your scent, and they will harry you to destruction, should you forget.’ Archaon gestured dismissively with the hammer.
Canto smiled slightly, pleased. Mannfred annoyed him. Only room enough for two lickspittles in this court, I’m afraid, he thought. As if the vampire had heard his thoughts, Mannfred turned a red-eyed glare on him. Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but Mannfred stormed past him, trailing shadow and the stink of old blood in his wake.
‘I’m going to have to kill him, I think,’ he said, without thinking.
‘Possibly,’ Archaon said. He still held Ghal Maraz in his hands. ‘Then, possibly, it shall become unnecessary before long. It is all winding down, Canto. Can you not hear it? The wind which howls through the streets is the dying gasp of this sad world. The tremors which shake this mountain are but its death-shudders. Soon, it will all be done. All lies revealed, all gods thrown down, and the earth and sky made one.’
Canto shivered in his armour. His hand was still around the hilt of his sword. One blow, that’s all it would take… One swift blow, and then… Cathay, he thought. Only there wasn’t a Cathay any more, or an Araby, or anywhere that wasn’t here. Still… just one blow…
‘It would take more than one, Canto, and you know it,’ Archaon said, softly. He did not turn around. Canto froze nonetheless. ‘You had your chance once, to change the fate of all things, and you squandered it. You ran, rather than make a choice. In the end, it all comes down to choices, Canto. You chose to remain a man, in a world fit only for monsters. And now you face another choice.’
Archaon turned, Ghal Maraz swinging loosely in his grip. ‘The gods are always of two minds, Canto. One mind says strike, and the other says hold. The gods see all possibilities and none, and they are blinded by this wealth of knowledge. So they plot within plot, and scheme against themselves, even in their moment of victory. For if I succeed, the game ends. The world ends and their playthings are but ashes on the cosmic wind.’ He lifted the ancient hammer, turning it slightly in his grip, as if to admire the way the light glinted off the runes which marked its surface. ‘Like this hammer, the Dark Gods are both creator and destroyer, and they cannot make up their minds as to which they are in any given moment.’
He swung the hammer experimentally. ‘They are idiot gods, Canto – they are more powerful than you can conceive, but in truth, they are little better than giggling imbeciles, drawing shapes in the mud. They will crush this world into dust and blow it away, and then move on to some other world, some other place where the game begins again. That is the truth of it.’ Archaon tossed the hammer aside carelessly, and it thumped down with a hollow clang. ‘In a way, you were wise not to pledge your allegiance to any of them. That alone has given you the will to decide your own fate. The others will fight, because their gods demand blood. But you have a choice. Indeed, you have so many choices that I cannot help but envy you. I have no choices left to make, and am bound to my path.’
Canto shook his head. ‘What… what choices?’ he croaked.
‘You could kill me,’ Archaon said. He spread his arms. ‘It might be enough to halt what has begun. With me dead, the gods would certainly turn away, though whether in satisfaction or anger, I cannot say. Or you could run. You could flee, and live for however long the world remains. I will not stop you.’ Archaon crossed his arms. ‘You could fight. You could be Unsworn no more, and perhaps even gain some measure of power in these final hours. Become a demigod like Azazel or Dechala, eternal and inhuman.’
Canto stared at him. After a moment, he said, ‘None of those sound particularly enjoyable.’ He looked down at his hand, clamped tight to the hilt of his sword, and, not for the first time, thought of Count Mordrek and the way he’d died. An ending, that’s all any of us are after, he thought.
‘Nonetheless, the choice is upon you at last. What do you wish to do, Unsworn?’ Archaon asked. ‘Which road will you take? Once, you showed some small touch of mercy, and spared the world its due punishment. Now, you have that chance again. Will you show it mercy a second time?’ There was something in Archaon’s voice which made Canto hesitate. A note of pleading perhaps, or resignation. It was the voice, not of a conqueror, or a great champion, but a man tired unto death, and wanting only oblivion.
Run and hide or stand and fight, Unsworn – your appointed hour has come round at last, he thought. He’d thought it had passed, but Middenheim, Averheim… it had all been a single moment, stretched over weeks and days. But now it was done, and he could no longer avoid it. He could only choose, as Archaon had said.
Canto’s sword was in his hand, before he knew he had drawn it. There were no voices in his head, no whispers, only the sound of a tortoise of iron and crystal as it trudged on and on, into endless wastes, searching for something that could never be found. His sword slashed down towards Archaon’s head, and then there was a flash of light, and pain and he was falling back – back onto the ground.
‘I hoped you would run,’ Archaon said solemnly. The Slayer of Kings hung loosely in his hand, its edge red with blood. It had cut through Canto’s armour as if it were nothing. ‘If you had run, I could have spared you this, for a few hours more. You have served me well, and without complaint, and I would have liked to have given you that much.’
Canto couldn’t breathe. There was a fire in his belly, and it was consuming him from the inside out. Even so, he still managed to laugh. ‘I… am running,’ he wheezed. ‘Death is the only escape from… from what’s coming.’ Pain swelled in him, choking off his laughter. Archaon knelt beside him.
‘Do you fear the truth so much, then?’ Archaon asked. He sounded regretful, and confused. You aren’t bound to your path, you just never bothered to look for another, Canto thought, through a haze of agony. Were you too scared? Is that it? Are you afraid, Everchosen? And here I thought I was the coward…
‘Whose truth?’ Canto said, his voice barely a whisper. Archaon twitched, as if struck. The world was going red and black at the edges, and the pain had faded, leaving only a leaden weight on his limbs and heart. Canto closed his eyes. ‘I’ll not be forced to choose between dooms,’ he slurred. ‘Let the gods catch me if they can. I remain true to myself.’
Archaon said something, but Canto couldn’t hear it. He could hear nothing now, save the distant laughter of thirsting gods, and the slow, soft wheeze of the tortoise as it walked on, towards the edge of the world.
Canto ran after it.
Teclis watched Archaon rise to his feet, sword still in his hand. He left the body of the Chaos warrior where it lay, and turned towards his captive. Teclis had not caught everything that had passed between them, but he thought he understood it regardless, and he cursed the warrior, whoever he had been, for not killing Archaon when he’d had the chance. The moment had passed now, and it would take more than a blade in the back to topple the Everchosen from here on out.