‘He was the world’s last hope,’ Archaon said, as he turned towards Teclis. ‘I thought, for a moment, he might… but no matter. The way is clear and my path assured. Let the skies weep and the seas boil. Let us be free, at last, of the hideous weight of life.’
Teclis gathered his legs under him as Archaon strode towards him. ‘Not all of us think it a burden,’ he croaked. Archaon raised his sword and shattered the chains which connected the elf to the dais, as Teclis shied away instinctively. Archaon reached down and grabbed the chains, hauling Teclis upright.
‘I do not care what you think, mage. I care only what you see. Come.’ Archaon dragged Teclis up through the temple, onto the ancient battlements which surrounded the shattered dome. Teclis nearly stumbled and fell many times, but Archaon kept him moving with sharp tugs and cuffs about the head and shoulders. When they reached the open air, Teclis gulped it in, trying to clear his mouth and nose of the taste and smell of the foulness within the defiled temple.
Archaon paused at the top of the battlements. The Everchosen gazed out over the city, watching the play of light and shadow stretch across the ruins. Even from here, Teclis could hear the sounds of battle, and see the smoke. He could hear the boom of guns, and the raucous cries of the orcs. And wasn’t that a surprise, he thought sardonically. It made a strange sort of sense. The Wind of Beasts had gone east and found a suitably bestial host. Appropriate, if unanticipated.
Archaon tugged on the chains. ‘What do you see?’ he rasped.
Teclis looked at him, and a dozen different answers sprang to mind. What should I tell you? That the Incarnates are bound together by bonds of magic, and those same bonds are drawing them here? That it is fate, that it has come down to this, and that even the Ruinous Powers are but children in the hands of destiny? But no. Archaon didn’t want to hear any of that. The question had been rhetorical. The Everchosen was no longer a man, but merely a mechanism… a toy, wound up and set loose by irrational beings.
The elf sniffed. ‘I see the end of all you have planned, and the fall of the Dark Gods.’
Archaon laughed. The sound set Teclis’s gut to churning. ‘Such defiance. Do you not fear me?’ the Everchosen asked. There was no threat there. Only a question.
‘What does it matter?’ Teclis said. He examined the Everchosen, studying the stained armour, the ragged furs and the expressionless helmet. Once, he thought, the man before him could have been something else. There was a whiff of destiny deferred about him. It reminded him of Tyrion, in a way. Archaon could have, once upon a time, become the guiding flame for humanity, leading his folk out of the shadows and into glory.
Instead, he had become nothing more than a black fire, blazing at the heart of a world-consuming inferno. You could have been a hero, Teclis thought, and felt a wave of sadness sweep through him. But you didn’t even try, did you? Did you even have the chance? He shook his head and looked out at the city. ‘My life and death are irrelevant. I have played my part in this sorry affair.’
‘Let me tell you what I see,’ Archaon said, hauling Teclis close. ‘I see a battle already won, and the dying spasms of a world already ended. Whether your allies win or lose, I win. Or were you hoping one of them might turn the tide? Your brother, perhaps?’ Archaon shoved Teclis back.
Teclis fell to his knees on the hard stone. He ignored the pain, and glared up at the Everchosen. So certain, are you? So assured of the outcome that it has blinded you to any other possibility. You made your choice, and you expect the world to fall into line with it. He snorted. You are more like my brother than I thought. ‘Armies are not the only expression of strength. And my brother is not who you should fear. It is the Emperor.’
‘Karl Franz is a weakling. A mortal serving a false god in the name of a nonexistent empire,’ Archaon said. ‘I tore his magic from him, and sent him running.’
Teclis allowed himself a wintry smile. ‘I did not say the Emperor is Karl Franz.’ He looked away, out over the city. He could see the lights of the Incarnates, drawing close. And one in particular attracted his eye. He could feel Archaon’s eyes boring into him. ‘Karl Franz died in Altdorf, at the hands of your servants. He was a man, and he died a man’s death. But an empire must have an emperor, and one came who answered the call.’ He smiled. It had taken some time to puzzle it all out.
‘What are you saying?’ Archaon said.
‘Did you really believe that the Heldenhammer would do nothing while you annihilated all that he built?’ Teclis said. He turned and met Archaon’s black gaze without flinching. ‘Sigmar is coming, Everchosen. Even as he came for your predecessors. And with him, all of the fury and fire of this world which you so casually claim is dying.’
Archaon lashed out with a fist, and knocked Teclis sprawling. ‘Sigmar is a lie,’ he snarled. He grabbed Teclis’s chains and jerked the elf to his feet. ‘He is a lie!’
Teclis grinned through bloody lips. ‘I hope I get to see you tell him that face to face.’
Mannfred cursed loudly and steadily as he stormed out of the Temple of Ulric and flung himself into Ashigaroth’s saddle. The great beast groaned as it flung itself into the air at his barked command. Mannfred snarled uselessly as he flew over the rooftops of the Ulricsmund. It was all going wrong; he could feel it. The wind was shifting, but he couldn’t tell in which direction. This is not as I foresaw, he thought. Victory had seemed so certain, then. Now, there was no certainty save that the end was fast approaching.
When he had arrived in Middenheim a few days earlier, Archaon had readily accepted his offer of fealty, even as he had that of the renegade elf priestess, Hellebron, and, even more surprisingly, Settra the Imperishable. The former king of Khemri was the last individual, living or dead, that Mannfred had expected to see here of all places. He’d thought the ancient liche reduced to dust and scattered across the sands of his beloved Nehekhara, after his refusal to serve Nagash as a mortarch.
The Everchosen had seemed amused by these turncoats more than anything. And the Everchosen’s other champions had wasted no opportunity to remind Mannfred of his new place in the scheme of things. He had been forced to defend himself, and his place in the pecking order, more than once. Such efforts had hardly been worth it, however.
He already regretted coming to Middenheim. This disrespect was the last straw. He would not fight for Archaon. Servitude to a jumped-up barbarian was no less galling than being Nagash’s slave, and he had no taste for either. Let them fight one another. He would keep clear, and be ready to take advantage of what remained.
Ashigaroth hurtled on through the sky, as Mannfred turned his attentions to the battles taking place throughout the city. Somehow, Teclis had managed to drag the Incarnates and their followers to Middenheim, but he had not done so in any organised fashion. Nevertheless, they were moving steadily towards the Temple of Ulric, and Archaon. It would not take them long to smash aside the few obstacles Archaon had set in their path.
Mannfred glanced over his shoulder, back towards the temple. What is your game, Everchosen? Why are you not making a more concentrated effort to stop them? What am I not seeing? Since arriving in the city, he had attempted to uncover the reason for Archaon’s seeming unwillingness to abandon the city. What was so important about Middenheim that Archaon would trap himself here?
Thus far, no answers were forthcoming. Archaon had shared his intent with few beyond his inner circle, most of whom were now dead by the hand of that fool, Canto. Archaon’s executioner was nothing special – just another barbarian. But the others had deferred to him, as if he held some special place in Archaon’s esteem. Mannfred’s lip curled. As if a creature like that could be important.