A flare of light startled him, and he turned to see Tyrion still locked in combat with the bloodthirster. The elf was holding his own, but only just. The bloodthirster had already killed one Incarnate, and though it was wreathed in flames and bleeding from dozens of wounds, it didn’t seem to be slowing down. And Tyrion was beginning to tire.
A knight, bearing the bull emblem of Ostland on one pauldron, staggered into him. Volker grabbed his arm, and the knight tried to pull free. His armour was scorched and dented, and he’d lost his helmet. ‘Let go of me, damn you,’ he cried.
‘Get back in line,’ Volker snarled. The man paled and stumbled back.
‘The Emperor is dead,’ he shouted. ‘We cannot win!’
Volker tensed, and Ulric snarled within him. Before he could stop himself, he swung his axe and decapitated the knight. Cowardice is like a disease, Ulric growled, and it spreads as swiftly as any pox. Volker saw other men, knights and halberdiers, woodsmen and handgunners, staring at him in shock and fear. His fellow Reiksguard, whom he’d been fighting among, edged away from him. His gut churned, but he lifted the bloody axe high and bared his teeth. ‘Fight or die, men of the Empire,’ he snarled. He could feel the god adding his strength to Volker’s voice, making sure he was heard by every human ear on the field of battle. ‘I do not care which, but do it bravely, and do it well. Fight, in the name of Sigmar, who forged our Empire. Fight, in the name of Ulric, who forged our people! Fight and rend the enemy like the wolves who birthed you!’
A northman charged through the press towards him, bellowing incoherently. Volker spun the axe in his hands and brought it down in a two-handed grip, cleaving the barbarian from pate to jowl. He tore the axe free and gestured towards the enemy. ‘Fight, you Unberogens! Fight, you Teutogens, Jeutones and Brigundians, fight, sons of Ulric all! Fight until the Fauschlag quakes and the Dark Gods hide in fear,’ he roared. And they roared with him. He could feel the panic and dismay giving way to anger and determination as he charged towards the foe, his people at his back, and felt Ulric’s contented growl roll through him. Whatever else happened here today, the men of the Empire would not falter.
A new sound pierced the clangour of combat then, even as Volker led his people into battle. It rose from the south, spiralling up into the smoky air, and set the hair on the back of his neck to dancing. Through the madness of battle, he caught sight of green shapes flooding into the plaza. ‘Orcs,’ he muttered, as he slammed his shoulder into a bloodletter’s gut and flipped the daemon over his back. ‘As if things aren’t mad enough.’
Not just orcs, Ulric roared, elves as well. The Incarnates approach. Allies, Wendel Volker. Or if not allies, then those who come to make war on our enemies. He shuddered as the godspark howled within him, joyously this time. War, man, war so as to shake the pillars of heaven itself! See them, Wendel Volker, see how they come, scenting the blood of our prey!
Volker shook his head, trying to ignore Ulric’s howls and concentrate on the fight at hand. He heard someone shout his name, and jerked back as the Chaos warrior charging towards him was suddenly transmuted to gold. He turned and saw Balthasar Gelt riding towards him, the Everqueen sitting behind him on the pegasus’s back. ‘Volker, where is the Emperor?’ the wizard shouted. Volker signalled for his fellow Reiksguard to fall in around Gelt and Alarielle, and the remaining knights did so swiftly.
‘That… thing struck him down. I don’t know where he is, and there’s no chance of finding out, not with the enemy hemming us in,’ Volker said, gesturing towards the spot where Ka’Bandha and Tyrion still fought as Gelt helped Alarielle down from the pegasus. ‘If you’ve got any magic that can find him, now’s the time to use it,’ he continued.
Before Gelt could answer, an ear-splitting screech sounded over the din of the battle. The two Incarnates and Volker turned to see the bloodthirster reel back, away from Tyrion, its axe a twisted ruin. It tossed the smoking weapon aside and reached for Tyrion. It smashed his sword down, and knocked him from his feet. The daemon loomed over the elf, its hammer raised for a killing blow.
‘No,’ Alarielle hissed. She started forwards, but Volker stopped her, even as Ulric howled a warning in his mind.
‘Wait – look!’ he said. A sudden gale sprang up, sweeping across the Ulricsmund. And with it came a charnel stink that hung heavy on the air. A moment later, a swirling black cloud, roiling and pulsing with dark energy, burst out from between two buildings. The street shook beneath the tread of something monstrous as the cloud rolled forwards. Where it passed, combatants fell dead, their skin desiccated and cracked, their weapons and armour crumbling to dust. The cloud of death made no distinction between orcs and elves, skaven and northmen. It claimed them all.
The cloud drew close to Ka’Bandha, who stared at it in bewildered rage. As it got within arm’s reach, it split open to reveal an immense, skeletal figure standing amidst the thinning vapour. Nagash had come, at last. And death came with him.
Volker cringed back as Nagash drew his great, serrated blade and hewed at the bloodthirster. The daemon interposed its hammer at the last moment, and the two baneful weapons connected in a shower of sparks. Nagash gave a death-rattle of frustration and launched another blow. Ka’Bandha swatted it aside with a roar. The two beings slammed together and broke apart, their duel scattering the combatants around them as it shook the street. The remaining windows in the temple shattered as sword and hammer met again, and even the warpflames shied away from the duel.
Through the smoke and dust thrown up by the confrontation, Volker saw a horse galloping towards them, the slumped form of Tyrion on its back. Alongside Alarielle, he caught the elf as he toppled from the saddle. ‘Does he live?’ she asked.
‘I live,’ Tyrion coughed, reaching up to stroke her face. She caught his hand and held it. Volker turned away, uncomfortable. Battle is no place for such things, Ulric growled petulantly.
‘Quiet,’ Volker murmured. He could hear something. Like a rattle of spears and a rumbling of drums, or the snap of distant flames. He turned, to ask Gelt if he’d heard it, and saw that the three Incarnates were staring up at the sky. Gelt was shaking in his saddle, and the elves looked bewildered.
Lightning slammed down, not the blood-red lightning of the Chaos-cursed skies, but something brighter and purer. It struck the dome of the temple, and shook the Fauschlag down to its core. Ka’Bandha and Nagash both shrank back from the light, their fight forgotten in the face of such overwhelming elemental fury.
Tyrion laughed.
‘Welcome back, my friend,’ he said.
Sigmar strode through the dust and the smoke, lightning crawling across his form, Ghal Maraz in his hand. He had cast off the remains of his cloak, and his helmet. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole. Complete.
He had been reborn in the broken body of Karl Franz as the Glottkin had ravaged Altdorf, called to a man of his blood by the winds of magic and fate, and perhaps even necessity. An empire, even a dying one, needed an emperor. I was the first, and so I will be the last, he thought sadly. Then he looked out at the massed ranks of friend and foe, and smiled. Or perhaps I will be the first again, come what may.