Ashigaroth screamed and reared in mid-air. Mannfred fought to remain in the saddle as the beast bucked and shrieked. He twisted in the saddle, searching for what had disturbed his mount, and saw the sky over the Grafsmund split open, and spit out something like a falling star. He urged Ashigaroth closer, even as the falling thing slammed into the street and shook the city. Badly battered buildings collapsed all about the circumference of the newly made crater, filling the air with smoke and ruin. Northmen streamed through the streets below him, hurrying to confront the new arrival. Curiosity compelled him to follow suit.
The fallen rubble shifted and slumped as the monstrous form of a bloodthirster rose to its feet. The daemon was badly hurt, its unnatural flesh scorched by fire and marked by dozens of wounds, but it did not lack for strength as it tore its way free of the crater. The charging northmen had stumbled to a halt, and, as Mannfred watched, they sank down to their knees before the bloodthirster. As the smoke cleared, the vampire caught a good look at the beast, and he jerked on Ashigaroth’s reins, pulling his mount up and away. Mannfred had studied the servants of the Dark Gods, and had familiarised himself with such entities as the Fateweaver and the Plaguefather. He knew Khorne’s Huntsman when he saw him, and he wanted to be nowhere near such a ravening engine of destruction.
What the beast was doing here, he could only surmise. Archaon had sent Ka’Bandha to claim the skull of the Emperor – perhaps the daemon had simply followed his prey with the single-minded determination that so characterised the followers of the Blood God. The daemon unleashed a roar fraught with almost tangible frustration, and lashed out with the hammer it clutched in one claw, pulverising a number of the kneeling humans.
Ka’Bandha roared again. The surviving northmen, overcome by the daemon’s bloodlust, threw back their heads as one and unleashed a warbling, communal howl. As the daemon strode away, the northmen followed, running on all fours as often as on two legs.
Mannfred shook himself. While he was immune to the daemon’s presence, even he could feel the heat of the creature’s rage. He urged Ashigaroth away, towards the Palast District. The more distance he put between himself and the daemon, the better. As he passed over the blood-soaked ruin Hellebron’s cultists had made of the Middenplatz, a flash of movement below caught his attention. Something black, streaking across a rooftop.
Mannfred blinked. Vlad, he thought. So, you’ve come as well. I thought you were smarter than that. Then, you could never resist a grand moment, could you? He urged Ashigaroth in pursuit, and loosened his sword in its sheath. There was little chance, given the powers involved, that he could sway the battle one way or another. The thought galled him, but he was pragmatic enough to admit when he was outmatched. But he could accomplish at least one thing in the meantime.
Nagash should never have brought you back, old man, he thought. And I’ll see you sent back into the dark before this world ends. Mannfred smiled cruelly as he hurtled in pursuit of the other vampire. Whatever else happened, whatever fate awaited Mannfred or the world he’d sought to claim, Vlad von Carstein would die.
SEVENTEEN
Malekith cursed as the eastern flank of his forces began to buckle beneath the weight of the orc assault. The ruins shook with savage cries as the greenskins barrelled through the thinning ranks of the fleeing skaven and crashed into the elves. The elves fought with all of the discipline and fury of their race, but they could not match the pure, bestial ferocity of the newcomers. He tugged on Seraphon’s reins, drawing the dragon through the air towards the collapsing lines. Below him, elves on horseback galloped to bolster the flagging flank.
He couldn’t say where the greenskins had come from, nor did he particularly care. That they were here now and attacking his forces was all that was important. It had all been going so well. The skaven had been driven before them, fleeing like the rodents they were. But even as the elves had pressed forwards, the orcs had been lured onto a collision course with Malekith’s forces. He could see the cunning pattern now – the ratkin had ever been willing to sacrifice thousands of their own kind in order to secure a minor victory. He cursed himself for not being more wary. Now he had a more persistent foe to contend with, and he knew, though he could not see them through the fog of war, that the skaven were likely regrouping. They would not have led both armies here, if they did not have some–
The thud of jezzail shots and the crackle of warp-lightning cannons interrupted his thoughts, and confirmed his suspicions. Seraphon caught an updraught and reared to hover in the air as, below, jezzail-shot thudded into the melee, gouging bloody trails of dead and wounded through the press of battle. Poisoned wind mortar shells burst open along his lines, claiming the lives of many elves, including the fierce corsairs of the Krakensides.
Of course, he thought. Why draw one foe into a trap, when you can draw two? Cunning vermin. Malekith snarled in frustration and jabbed his spurs into Seraphon’s scales, urging the dragon on.
With a shriek, the great beast undulated through the air, eastwards, in search of the hidden skaven positions. Malekith hunkered low in his saddle as green lightning arced from a crumbled second-storey archway, and at his command, Seraphon tucked its wings and plummeted towards the ruins like a diving falcon. The black dragon smashed into the ruins hard enough to shower the streets below with debris, and its head snaked forwards, jaws agape. Thick, black smoke spewed from its maw, and filled the ruin. Dying skaven staggered into view, collapsing even as they tried vainly to escape the noxious poison.
Malekith summoned flames of shadow and sent them roaring into the depths of the ruin, searing those skaven whom Seraphon’s breath had not reached. He laughed as the vermin burned, and longed to do the same to the whole city. Let it all burn, and be lost to darkness, so that the enemy might know the futility of standing against the Eternity King.
He heard a squeal from above him, and twisted in his saddle. Shapes dropped towards him from the upper reaches of the ruin, wielding curved blades that glistened with poison. Even as he raised his blade, he knew that he would not be able to stop every blow.
Something flashed in the dark, and spun past him. Several of the assassins went limp, like puppets with their strings cut, and smashed into the ground below. The remaining skaven landed on Seraphon’s back and leapt towards him, only to die with his sword in its skull. As he swept the twitching carcass away from him, he turned to see a dwarf axe embedded in the stonework nearby. Whoever had thrown it had done so with consummate skill, killing two assassins in mid-air with a single throw.
‘You never were any good at watching your back, were you?’ a rough voice rumbled, from somewhere nearby. Malekith froze. He recognised the voice, though he had not heard it in millennia. Not since those dim, distant days before elf and dwarf had discarded all oaths of friendship, and gone to war. ‘Just as well I was passing through.’ He caught a glimpse of gleaming armour and a flash of white beard, and felt his heart lurch in memory of a pain he’d thought long forgotten.
‘Snorri,’ Malekith whispered. ‘My friend – I…’