A plaguebearer rose up before him, and he smashed his axe into its bulging side, tearing it out the other in a welter of foulness. The daemon sagged, its blade falling from its rubbery fingers as Volker stepped over it. The air was cold around him. He looked down at Teclis, and said, ‘Hello, thief.’ But it wasn’t his voice. It was the deep, rough growl of the godspark within him. ‘Your debt has come due.’
‘Well, wolf-god, if that is who and what you are,’ Teclis murmured, through bloody lips, ‘I am helpless at last. Your prey hangs before you, throat bared. What will you do?’
Volker glared at him. Everything around him, the noise of the battle behind him, the constant keening wail of the shimmering black sphere at the centre of the cavern, all of it fell away, lost in the howling of wolves. He was cold inside and out, and despite the heat of the cavern, his breath frosted on the air. He raised his axe. Teclis closed his eyes.
Volker hesitated. Teclis cracked one eye. The elf smiled. ‘Then, perhaps I am not your prey after all, despite your howling.’ He grimaced, as a spasm of pain rippled through him. ‘Am I your enemy, Wendel Volker? Or are we at last allies in this last hunt?’
Volker shook his head. He lowered his weapon. The Fauschlag shook, and Volker closed his eyes for a moment as the howling grew too much to bear. In his head, he heard the voice of Gregor Martak. You will not die, Wendel Volker. Not until you have done as I command. ‘No,’ he said, softly, as he looked at Teclis. ‘You are not my quarry.’ He turned. He spotted Archaon, galloping through the press of battle, and Ulric howled within him. Yes, yes!
And then, axe in hand, the last servant of the wolf-god went on the hunt.
Sigmar Unberogen saw the battle as if through a prism – scenes and vignettes of heroism and struggle flashed across his eyes. He saw Malekith, once more astride his dragon, shadows flaring about him like a dark cloak, hurtle into battle against two malevolent lords of change. He saw Alarielle, pale and weak, the world’s pain battering at her body and mind, snare a gambolling beast of Nurgle in a web of thorns and tear it to slimy shreds. He saw Gelt unbind the enchantments that bound together daemonic weapons, and loose swarms of flesh-rending shards to tear scores of daemons apart. He saw Nagash, lurid amethyst fires boiling in his eye sockets, stalk forwards, his spells and legion of corpses driving the enemy before him.
Strange times, he thought, as he watched the liche do battle with the world’s foes. There was a strange sort of nobility there, buried beneath the murk and madness. A will that rivalled his own, a drive for victory that was second to none. Nagash would fight to the end, for he could not countenance defeat. As he watched, the liche swung his blade and opened a bloodthirster’s belly, scattering burning ichor through the air.
Deathclaw’s screech brought him back to himself and Ghal Maraz lashed out, smashing the malformed skull of a plaguebearer. Around him, the remaining members of the Reiksguard fought from horseback, or on foot, as they slowly pushed their way towards the warp-artefact. Sigmar watched as the men – his men – fought on, and thought, once, I would have known your names. I would have known who you were, and we would have shared wine and blood. I do not know you now, and I am sorry.
He jabbed his hammer out, and sent a bolt of cerulean lightning smashing into a pack of flesh hounds as they loped towards Grimgor. The orc was oblivious to his peril, being too occupied with trying to shove his axe down the throat of a great unclean one. The beasts were hurled back, or up into the air, their scaly bodies blackened and broken. Saving an orc, Sigmar thought. What would Alaric say? He smiled. He’d probably be annoyed all of his runefangs have gone missing.
The air throbbed as the artefact at the chamber’s heart pulsed, and as Sigmar turned towards it, he saw it expand to almost four times its previous size. Jagged lesions appeared on its outer skin, spreading like stress fractures in a pane of glass. A brilliant white light shone from the growing wounds, dazzling and painful in its intensity. The Fauschlag gave a sudden, jarring lurch, and Sigmar knew that they were out of time.
Great slabs of rock crashed down from above, pulverising zombies, daemons and even a few luckless elves. Sigmar jerked Deathclaw into motion as he saw Tyrion’s horse go down amidst the rain of debris, its leg broken. The griffon barrelled in with a shriek and snatched both horse and rider out of the path of a stalactite. The elf looked up at Sigmar and nodded his thanks as he and his wounded steed were deposited nearby. Sigmar didn’t waste words on inquiring after the elf’s health. Hurt or not, Tyrion would fight on. He urged Deathclaw back towards the centre of the cavern, hoping he might reach the artefact. Though what I’m going to do when I get there is another matter entirely, he thought, as his hammer crashed down on a bloodletter’s flat skull.
He spotted Malekith as he hurtled through the rain of falling stones, and gestured towards Teclis’s bound form, hoping the Eternity King would understand. There was no way his voice would carry through the cacophony of the collapsing cavern. Fortunately, the Incarnate of Shadow seemed to have grasped his meaning, and he nodded tersely as his dragon wheeled about in the air to swoop towards Teclis, ignoring the rocks which bounced off its scaly hide. Sigmar looked around, trying to spot the other Incarnates.
He saw the great unclean one Grimgor had been attempting to throttle struck by an immense chunk of rock, and it burst under the impact, foetid liquid spurting free from the torn prison of unnatural flesh to spatter all who fought around it. The orc dodged aside at the last moment and now stood alone almost in the centre of the cavern, his Immortulz spread out around him, locked in combat with the fallen daemon’s servitors.
As Grimgor turned towards the light of the sphere, Sigmar saw Archaon, still sitting astride his horse before the artefact, raise a fist. The Swords of Chaos lowered their lances as one, and started forwards. The Chaos knights picked up speed, and soon they were galloping towards the orcs, Archaon at their head.
‘Faster, old friend,’ Sigmar shouted, as Deathclaw lunged. But even as the griffon careened towards the centre of the cavern, Sigmar knew he would be too late. Grimgor caught sight of Archaon and roared in delight. The orc charged to meet the oncoming knights, his bodyguard loping alongside him. The greenskins crashed into Archaon’s warriors and carnage ensued. Grimgor beheaded a horse with a wild blow, and dragged a knight from his saddle as the man sought to ride past.
The Incarnate of Beasts swung the hapless Chaos knight like a bludgeon, battering at the latter’s comrades with more enthusiasm than accuracy. He hurled the limp body aside and whirled to meet the charge of the Lord of the End Times. Archaon bore down on the orc, intending to ride him under, but Grimgor was too fast. He slid aside, avoiding the thrashing hooves of the hell-steed, and lunged at its rider. His axe slammed into Archaon’s shield, buckling it and knocking the Three-Eyed King from the saddle.
Sigmar felt a thrill of hope as he watched the orc stalk towards the fallen Everchosen. Of all of them, he had thought the brute the least likely to strike the killing blow. But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
‘I will not be felled by a beast,’ Archaon snarled, his voice carrying over the clamour of battle. He surged to his feet, even as Grimgor reached him. ‘I am Archaon, and I am the end made flesh,’ he shouted. He slashed out, nearly opening the orc’s belly. ‘What do you say to that, animal?’