Arkhan heard a crash and spun. Sigvald, broken sword in hand, had borne Krell to the ground. One of the wight’s arms was missing, and as Arkhan watched, Sigvald braced his knee against the other, pinning Krell. The champion was howling unintelligibly as he battered at the wight with his broken sword and bleeding fists. Krell’s armour crumpled beneath the maddened Geld-Prince’s blows, and Arkhan could feel the wight’s spirit slipping loose from its husk. He took a step towards them, but found his path blocked by a massive shape.
Throgg roared and smashed his club down, narrowly missing Arkhan. The troll-king wrenched his weapon up, scattering cobblestones, and swung it again. Arkhan twisted aside and hacked a bloody trench in the troll’s side. Throgg staggered, clapping a hand to the steaming wound. His club found Arkhan’s hip, pulverising the bone. Arkhan stumbled, and it was only thanks to his staff that he stayed upright. He dragged himself out of reach as his bones re-knit, but Throgg didn’t follow. Instead, the troll seemed captivated by Sigvald and Krell’s confrontation.
Arkhan shuddered as he heard the fading scream of Krell’s ancient, black soul, and he glanced over his shoulder. Sigvald sat back on his heels, panting and bloody-faced, staring blindly down at the shattered remains of Krell. The Geld-Prince threw back his head and screamed, though whether in triumph or in mourning for his ruined features, Arkhan couldn’t say. Regardless, the scream was cut short a moment later by Throgg, who split Sigvald’s head open with his club, dashing his brains across Krell’s carcass.
Throgg turned, a smile on his grotesque features. ‘He was a fool, and a wastrel,’ the troll rumbled. Arkhan was startled by the troll’s voice. It was not that of a beast, but of a man. A man in agony. For a brief moment, Arkhan felt a strange kinship with the creature – they were both but pawns in the designs of others, their own hopes and dreams but sparks lost in the grand conflagrations of those they served.
‘And you are neither, I suppose,’ Arkhan rasped.
‘No. The gods sent me here to die on your sword, so that my body might tangle your feet and delay you,’ Throgg said. He looked around. More bellowing creatures – monsters of all shapes and sizes – spilled down from the overlook with every passing moment. What was left of the Doomed Legion was already being swept away, and only the southern stretch of the Great Park was still firmly in the hands of the dead. The battle was going badly, Arkhan knew. He could feel Nagash’s growing frustration, and the heavy tread of his approach.
‘A TASK FOR WHICH YOU AND YOUR HORDE ARE SINGULARLY WELL SUITED, APE,’ Nagash said, as he stepped over the burning carcass of a chimera. Blood stained his robes and armour, but the nine books still thrashed and snapped at the ends of their chains, and his captive spirits still wailed. ‘BUT I HAVE NO TIME FOR SUCH DISTRACTIONS. I HAVE GODS TO SLAY.’
Throgg hefted his club. ‘Make time, carrion-bird,’ he roared. ‘I have been denied an empire, but I will not be denied victory.’ The troll surged forwards, brushing Arkhan aside as if the liche were no more substantial than a spider-web. ‘I will wear your skull as an amulet, and the gods will grant me all that I wish!’
Nagash’s great blade looped around, and chopped through the club. Throgg lurched to the side, off balance, and Nagash’s free hand snapped forwards, talons digging into the troll’s throat. Nagash dragged the troll close. ‘THE GODS GRANT NOTHING YOU DID NOT ALREADY POSSESS, FOOL. THEY ARE LIARS AND THIEVES. I WILL DRAG THEM SCREAMING FROM THEIR NIGHTMARE WOMB AND FLAY THEIR SECRETS FROM THEM. SERVE ME, AND I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THAT YOU MIGHT DESIRE.’
Throgg pounded uselessly on Nagash’s arm, trying to break his grip. The troll glared at Nagash. ‘Better death,’ he snarled, in his almost-human voice. ‘Better death than service to such as you. The gods might raise us up, or dash us down, but there is a chance there, at least. There is no hope, not in you.’
‘AS YOU WISH,’ Nagash intoned. His great blade, death-energy writhing along its length, plunged down, through the troll’s thick shoulder and into his torso. Throgg screamed and sank down, clawing at Nagash’s robes. The Undying King held the sword in place, and the magics in that fell blade did their work, chewing through the troll’s mutated body like acid. Throgg collapsed slowly, falling in on himself, until there remained only a pile of char and ash, and a tarnished crown, which rolled slowly away across the cobbles to fall flat at Arkhan’s feet.
‘And thus do the unworthy fall,’ a voice as dry as the desert sands rasped. Arkhan looked up from the crown, and turned. A familiar form, ancient bones shrouded in tattered ceremonial wrappings and broken armour, stepped towards them, khopesh in hand. ‘Will you join him in oblivion, Usurper?’
‘SETTRA,’ Nagash said.
‘I have walked across half of this world to find you, Usurper. You broke me and scattered me, but Settra is deathless. Settra is eternal. And so Settra returned, and now he stands here, sword in hand, and he denies you, Usurper. He stands between you and triumph,’ Settra croaked. He lifted his khopesh and pointed it at Nagash, who regarded him as if he were less a threat than a curiosity.
‘I DID NOT BRING YOU BACK, LITTLE KING,’ Nagash said.
‘No,’ Settra said. ‘You did not.’ The khopesh dipped. ‘They did. The jackals of the smokeless fire, the howlers in the Wastes. They dared to offer Settra aid.’
‘HOW FOOLISH OF THEM,’ Nagash said.
‘They offered Settra victories, and empires and life unending.’
‘AND WHAT DID THEY ASK IN RETURN, LITTLE KING?’
‘That I serve them and kill you.’ Settra looked down at the remains of Throgg, and then, quicker than Arkhan could follow, lunged. Nagash lurched aside, but Arkhan realised that Settra had not been aiming for the Incarnate of Death. Instead, the ancient king’s blade chopped into the scaly torso of the dragon ogre which had been preparing to smash its enormous axe down on the back of Nagash’s skull. The beast roared in agony, but Settra did not give it time to recover. He tore his blade free and slashed upwards, separating the monster’s head from its shoulders. It toppled over like a felled tree, and Settra turned.
He extended his khopesh towards Nagash. ‘Settra does not serve. Settra rules.’ He strode past them, towards the horde of monsters. ‘Go, prince of Khemri. Settra will forgive your trespasses if you but make the jackals howl. Teach them that the kings of the Great Land cannot be bought and sold like slaves. And then, when it is done, Settra shall take your head, and take back his people.’
As the last words left his mouth, Settra the Imperishable broke into a run, slashing out at a snarling giant even as the great beast reached down for him. His khopesh removed its fingers, and then its lower jaw in rapid succession. A moment later, he was lost to Arkhan’s sight as he plunged into the heart of the battle.
Arkhan looked up at Nagash. The Undying King gazed in the direction Settra had vanished for a moment longer, as if bemused. Then he turned to look down at Arkhan. ‘MY SERVANT,’ he said.
‘What would you have me do, master?’
‘I MUST REACH THE ARTEFACT, OR ALL IS FOR NAUGHT. TAKE TWO HOSTS OF THE MORGHASTS AND HOLD HERE, UNTIL YOUR LAST STRENGTH IS GONE. DO NOT FAIL ME.’