‘You know nothing about me,’ Archaon said, still holding his sword aloft.
‘I know you. I saw you born and I saw you die, again and again. I saw your soul twisted all out of shape by the honeyed words of daemons, and I saw you turn your back on me. I saw and I wept, for you, and for what I knew you would do.’
Archaon lowered his blade. ‘No…’
‘You made yourself a pawn of prophecy,’ Sigmar said. ‘You set your feet on this path. The daemons helped, but it was you who walked into the darkness. It was you who fled the light, Diederick.’
‘You are not Sigmar. The gods are all dead, and he was a lie,’ Archaon grated.
‘Are they dead, or are they a lie? Make up your mind,’ Sigmar said. He could see Ghal Maraz’s haft, just out of the corner of his eye. He stretched a hand towards it.
‘You are lying,’ Archaon roared. He lifted his sword, but before he could bring it down, there was a flash of white fur, and then Wendel Volker was there. Axe and sword connected with a screech, and the former exploded in its owner’s hands. Volker staggered, and Archaon’s sword chopped down, through his shoulder and into his chest. Archaon tore his blade free and the Reiksguard fell. Sigmar rolled over and reached for the hammer, but Archaon kicked it aside. ‘No! No more distractions. No more lies,’ Archaon howled. ‘You die now, and your Empire dies with you.’ He made to move after Sigmar, but something stopped him. Sigmar looked down, and saw Volker clinging to Archaon’s legs.
‘I told you once, Everchosen. When a wolf bites, he does not let go,’ Volker croaked. ‘And I told you that you would die here, whatever else.’ Archaon looked down in obvious shock, and Volker grinned up at him. ‘This is my city, man, and you will not take it!’ Ice began to spread across Archaon’s greaves, and he roared in anger and pain as the cold gnawed at him. Then the Slayer of Kings flashed down, and Wendel Volker, bearer of the godspark of Ulric, was no more.
Sigmar saw Volker slump, and heard, deep in his mind, the death-howl of the god he had worshipped in his youth. He had no time to mourn, for even as Archaon tore his blade free of the body of the last of the Reiksguard, the Everchosen pivoted and brought the howling daemon-blade down. But Volker and Ulric’s sacrifice had given him the time he needed to recover, and call up the lightning that was again his to command.
Sigmar thrust his hands up, and felt the blade crash against his palms. Lightning crackled between flesh and the hungry bite of tainted steel, and Sigmar slowly closed his fingers tight about the blade. Then he pushed himself erect, driving Archaon back with every step. The Everchosen tried to push back, but the Emperor was too strong.
And then, with a scream that was of joy as much as it was of pain, the Slayer of Kings shattered in Sigmar’s grip. Archaon reeled as smoking shards of the daemon-blade tore into his armour. Blinded, dazed, he stumbled back. Sigmar lunged forwards and drove his fist into Archaon’s featureless helm, buckling the metal, and driving him back, over the precipice, and into the maelstrom of shadows.
Archaon, Lord of the End Times, vanished into the darkness.
TWENTY-ONE
Sigmar shoved himself to his feet and, Ghal Maraz in hand, backed away. The sphere shuddered like a sick animal. A moment later, it shattered and collapsed in on itself, leaving a swirling rift of energy in its place. The white had become black, and it hurt Sigmar’s eyes to look upon it. Howling winds sprang up, buffeting all those who remained in the chamber and pulling them towards the writhing void. Sigmar saw that he and the other Incarnates, along with Teclis, were the only living beings in the cavern; every elf and human who’d descended into the depths with them was dead. Sadness warred with relief. Better death than what would have awaited them in the void. The powers of the Incarnates protected them from the energies now filling the cavern, but mortals would have been swept away within moments of the rift’s explosion.
All around him, the remaining daemons began to shudder and come apart. Their flesh ran like melted wax, and they were pulled, drop by drop, into the maw of the void. The fitful pulses which had marked the sphere were gone, replaced by an ominous rumble whose intensity grew with every passing moment. Sigmar turned away from the rift and began to force his way towards the other Incarnates, fighting the pull of the wind with every step.
The rock beneath his feet ran like water in a whirlpool, its hue and shape changing from one second to the next. Leering faces formed in the shifting stone, and vanished as soon as he looked at them. All around the chamber, the laws of nature were coming undone as the raw stuff of Chaos leaked into the world through the rift.
‘We were too late,’ Malekith snarled as Sigmar reached them. The Eternity King had to shout to be heard over the wind. He supported Teclis, and one of the mage’s arms was flung over his shoulder.
‘No,’ Gelt shouted. ‘No, we have not lost, not yet.’
‘What can we do?’ Alarielle screamed. She leaned against Tyrion, and Sigmar could tell from her face that she felt every single one of the torturous changes the cavern was undergoing. ‘It is but a trickle now, but it is growing stronger with every passing moment. We cannot hope to contain it!’
‘WE MUST. WE WILL,’ Nagash thundered, facing the void. ‘THIS WORLD IS MINE. NAGASH WILL NOT FALL. NAGASH CANNOT DIE. I WILL NOT. NOT AGAIN.’
‘He’s right,’ Sigmar said. He looked at Teclis. ‘If we combine our magics, as we did against the warpflame barrier, will it be enough?’
‘I – I do not know,’ Teclis said, shaking his head. The elf struggled to stand on his own, and pushed away from Malekith. He held his staff and leaned against it. ‘The Winds of Aqshy and Ghur, they are lost…’
‘They are not lost,’ Tyrion said. ‘I – we – can all feel them still. They are here, with us.’ He looked at his brother. ‘We must try, brother. Else what was it all for?’
Teclis stared at his brother in silence for a moment, his robes rippling in the shrieking wind. Then he nodded. ‘You are right, brother. You are always right.’
‘Except when I’m wrong?’ Tyrion said, smiling.
‘Even then,’ Teclis said, grinning. He shook his head. ‘You know what to do. The winds know their task, and they will guide you in the doing of it. I will try to bend Ghur and Aqshy to it as well. Even without hosts, they will be of some use.’
Sigmar looked at the others, and then, as one, they spread out, moving to the edge of the void. As they approached the roaring maelstrom, each Incarnate summoned the last vestiges of their power, and flung it forth, seeking to cage the uncageable. Sigmar groaned as the lightning crackled from him to spend its fury on the swirling rift. The void sought to draw the power from him, as Archaon had done at Averheim, and it took every ounce of his remaining strength to prevent it. He clutched Ghal Maraz in both hands and drew the lightning tight, focusing his will through the ancient hammer.
He saw Teclis set his staff, at the centre of the line, and begin to draw the Winds of Fire and Beasts into himself. He was not a suitable host for either, let alone both, and the winds struggled against him. Sigmar watched helplessly as the elf’s flesh began to boil and peel. What Teclis was attempting was a death sentence, but they had no other choice. Our lives for that of the world. That’s a fair bargain, he thought. He gritted his teeth against a sudden surge of pain. A light was growing in the chamber, as each of the winds was pitted against the audient void. And then, against all probability, the rift began to shrink.