The End Times | The Fall of Altdorf Page 26

  Gerhard’s mouth fell open. The wizards immediately launched all they had at the greater daemon, bombarding it with flurries of starburst-pattern flames. It roared at them, flooding the entire square in yellow spittle. The flames would not catch on its hide, and the wizards retreated steadily, loosing more bolts as they fell back.

  The monster lumbered after them, accompanied by the last remnants of the house it had crashed through. Despite its phenomenal size, it moved with unnerving speed, seeming to flicker and shift out of reality, suddenly lurching closer before rearing up high again.

  It lunged, managing to catch one of the magisters as he fled. The daemon picked up the struggling wizard effortlessly, breaking his spine with a squeeze of his massive claw.

  The remaining two redoubled their efforts, dousing the creature in a rain of rippling liquid fire, causing clots of ink-black smoke to curl from its hide. That seemed to hurt it, and it wobbled backward, hurling aside the broken body of the slain wizard and roaring angrily. The halberdiers rushed in close, displaying insane bravery, poised to thrust their long staves into the daemon’s flesh.

  They never made it. Before they had got within twelve feet of the monster, their torsos burst open, spraying entrails across the rain-drenched flagstones. Screaming, they fell to the ground, rolling and clutching at their shredded skin.

  A second figure emerged from the shadow of the fire-bound daemon. This one was still massive, more than twice the height of a normal man, though barely a quarter the size of the greater beast beside him. He was dressed in a parody of normal garb, though torn apart by his flabby belly and wobbling jowls. A similarly crooked grin disfigured a bloated face, stuffed with yellowing and rotten teeth. Pots hung from straps over his sloped shoulders, each one boiling with noxious fluids or stuffed with bloody clumps of human flesh.

  The newcomer gestured to the two remaining wizards, and their bodies were instantly consumed with fronds of clutching vines. The strands burst from the ground below them, grasping and clutching at their throats. The wizards fought back furiously, crying out counter-spells and tearing at the tendrils.

  By then, it was too late. Freed from the wizards’ fiery attentions, the daemon surged back towards them. It did not even use its claw this time – it simply rolled into them, crushing them both under thick skirts of suppurating flesh. Even then, half-wrapped in clutch-vines and crushed under the oncoming avalanche of stinking daemon-hide, they fought back, but only for a few, futile moments. With a sickening snap of bones breaking, they were both sucked under the daemon’s foul bulk.

  The creature sat atop them for a moment, grinding itself over their pulverised bodies, gurgling with what looked like vile pleasure.

  Margrit looked on, her jaw set defiantly. The surviving mortals in the square below, whether soldiers or supplicants, scattered. Lesser daemons scampered and scuttled after them, licking cracked lips in anticipation of the feasting to come.

  The two larger horrors remained where they were. The lesser creature gazed up at Margrit, catching her directly with his rheumy gaze. His grin never went away, and a thin line of excited drool spilled from his lower lip.

  ‘Hide while you can!’ the creature screamed. ‘Walls will not aid you!’

  Then the two of them started lumbering towards the gate, crunching bodies underfoot as they came, a leering light of conquest in their addled faces.

  Margrit could sense Gerhard’s fear. She could sense the terror in her sisters. She thought of the rows of bunks inside the temple, each one occupied by at least two sick charges. She thought of the gardens, and the young acolytes fresh from the villages, all of whom she had trained herself.

  It was all so, so fragile.

  She made the sign of Shallya across her chest, then clutched the battlements with both hands. ‘Faith is always to be tested,’ she said. ‘We fight for every last chamber.’

  That seemed to rouse the others. Gerhard barked orders to his men, and the other sisters hurried down the stairwells to draw more sacred water from the wells.

  Margrit barely noticed them go. Her temple was now a lone bulwark against a miasma of degradation. In every direction, the creatures of Chaos had free rein, burning, stabbing, infecting. Flames licked ever higher, reaching up like questing fingers to the pus-thick storm above. The vortex continued to twist and curl, bringing more destruction in its wake.

  The two daemonic horrors began to move again, dragging corpulent bodies ever closer. The jowly creature with the jangling collection of plague-pots was laughing uncontrollably. He looked deranged by hatred, and drew a wickedly spiked meathook from a loop around his straining waist.

  ‘In all things,’ Margrit murmured, working hard to control her fear, trusting even then, against the face of pure loathing, that something would intervene to save them, ‘Shallya be praised.’

  NINETEEN

  Martak lurched awake, panting like a terrified animal, his skin clammy. Shadow lay heavily on him, and he could smell burning. He scrabbled for his staff, and his hands clutched at nothing.

  Then, finally, his fingers closed over the reassuring weight of the wood, and he clutched it tight. The smell of burning came from the night’s fire, which they had let smoulder down as they slept. He was lying on the floor of a cave, little more than a scratch in the side of a moss-overhung cliff.

  The dream-visions remained vivid. He saw Altdorf burning, and knew that all he was being shown was reality. More than that, he saw the antler-crowned god again, writhing in agony, his body covered in lesions. He saw vistas of pure devastation, mile after mile of land tortured and twisted into sickening pools of endless decay.

  And, as always just before waking, he saw Karl Franz dying, his agonised face lit by the light of the deathmoon. That was the worst of all. It was all futile – such dreams did not lie.

  Martak hacked up the night’s phlegm, and dragged himself up onto his haunches. When he looked up to the cave-mouth, he saw the huddled silhouette of the Emperor, staring out over the forest below their vantage. Did he ever sleep? Had he taken any rest since Martak had rescued him?

  Martak shuffled up to join him, hawking and spitting to clear his throat.

  ‘Bad dreams?’ asked Karl Franz.

  Martak reached for the gourd of water they shared. It was almost empty, and neither of them had dared refill it from the polluted forest streams they had passed. He poured a dribble of it down his parched gullet, and felt the temporary pleasure of the liquid against his cracked lips.

  ‘No change,’ he said, settling down on the rock and rubbing his hands against his face.

  They were high up above the forest. Since Deathclaw’s recovery they had made use of every exposed patch of stone and earth amid the mind-bending vastness of the forest. The outcrops were like tiny islands, ringed by impenetrable overgrowth and sundered from one another by almost unimaginable distance. If they had not had the two griffons to bear them, they would be far to the north still, trudging through the brambled mire, hopelessly distant from their destination. As it was, Martak reckoned they were less than a day away.

  ‘Even a wizard may dream without it coming true,’ said the Emperor.

  ‘I never dreamed before,’ grumbled Martak. ‘Perhaps it comes with the position.’

  Karl Franz looked at him carefully. ‘You are a strange Supreme Patriarch. I ask myself, would I have let them choose you?’

  ‘It would not be your choice – the colleges decide.’

  ‘What a quaint idea.’ Karl Franz stretched out. His face was still gaunt from the long sojourn in the wilds, but he had gained in strength during the flight south. There was a steely light in his eyes, something that both impressed and worried Martak.

  He knows he won’t survive this. Does he look forward to death? Is that what this is about?

  ‘I will not ask you again, lord,’ said Martak, gathering himself for a final effort. ‘For all we know, Middenheim still stands. Schwarzhelm may have made for it. Of all your cities, it has the greatest defe
nsive potential.’

  ‘Defensive potential? You sound like an engineer.’ Karl Franz shook his head. ‘We have been over this. I will not skulk around the margins. It is my city, and I will be there.’

  Martak considered asking again, but decided against it. Once the Emperor’s mind was made up, he had no doubt it was impossible to shift.

  He watched the sun struggle to rise, its wan light filtering slowly through the grimy soup of the night’s cloud cover. Palls of mist boiled clear of spiny conifer tops, tinged with yellow from the poisons now gnawing the roots. The stench was getting worse, like fungus unearthed from dank cellars.

  The southern horizon had glowed throughout the night, a sick green that flickered and pulsed without rest. The clouds were being pulled towards the source like a gigantic blanket, rippling and furrowed in a vast, gradual rotation. At least there was no doubt over where they were headed.

  ‘And here they come,’ remarked Karl Franz, who had studiously avoided looking south. The two griffons were on the wing, returning from whatever hunting they had been able to find in such ravaged country.

  Martak watched them approach. He took a little pride in seeing Deathclaw restored to something like its full prowess. The Emperor’s beast was far larger than his own, with a raw power to its movements that betrayed an enormous aptitude for killing. If it was still in pain from his earlier ministrations, it gave no sign of it, and now flew as strongly as an eagle.

  With a whirl of claws and feathers, the two creatures landed on the ledge just below the cave-mouth, cawing at them both in what Martak guessed passed for a greeting. The Emperor acknowledged his mount’s arrival gracefully. Martak scowled at his, already dreading the prospect of riding it again.

  ‘You have seen the light, I take it?’ asked Karl Franz, almost casually.

  Martak grimaced. ‘How could I miss it?’

  ‘Not the burning. The other light.’

  Martak looked up. The skies were just as they always were – a sea of dirty, dingy grey, tinged with an unhealthy bruise pallor. Not knowing if he were being made fun of, he searched for something more. When he failed, he shot Karl Franz a suspicious look. ‘You mock me?’

  Karl Franz shook his head, looking quite serious. ‘The twin-tailed star scores the heavens. I see it even when my eyes are closed. They can mask its light for a while, but it will burn through eventually.’ He smiled wryly. ‘What do you suppose that means? A sign of hope?’

  Martak snorted. ‘What you propose is not hope but folly.’

  Karl Franz looked at him tolerantly. Perhaps, in the past, wizards would have been put to the rack for such impertinence, but there were no henchmen out in the wilds, and the Emperor had proved surprisingly indulgent of Martak’s irritable ways.

  ‘It would not be here if our course were not sanctioned. I would perceive that.’ Karl Franz nodded towards his sword, propped up in its scabbard against the cave wall. ‘The runefang no longer answers, my armies are scattered, the sun’s light is quenched, but Sigmar’s star still burns. That is something to be cherished, I think.’

  Martak did not say exactly what he thought of that. His empty stomach growled, souring his mood. They would have to be gone soon, straddling their half-feral mounts and heading towards deaths that were as certain as the rising of the moons. His counsel to head to Middenheim had been scorned, and the only consolation was that he stood a chance of fulfilling his vows to Margrit, which was very little to cling onto, since the chance of her being alive when they returned was slim indeed.

  ‘I am sure you are right, lord,’ he muttered, pulling his dirty cloak around him, thinking of what lay ahead, and shivering.

  The knights of Bretonnia crested the last rise to the south of the city, and beheld the end of the world.

  The vortex unlocked by the Leechlord was now a raging tornado, twisting its way through the lower city, ripping up roofs and throwing the tiles around in hailstorms of shattering clay. Flames roared around the walls, leaping up against the towering stone like sails in a gale, fuelled and spread by racing winds. Blooms of rot and canker flourished in spite of the inferno, glowing eerily in the fervid night and matching the unclean glare of the deathmoon, which presided over the carnage like some obscene god peering through the torn curtain of the skies.

  Dawn was close, but the nearing sun made no impression on the mottled patchwork of magicks and sorcery. Altdorf was a lone rock amid a raging furnace of unrestrained madness. The Realm of Chaos had come to earth, and to witness it was to witness the birth of a new and horrific order.

  The first rank of warhorses lined up on the ridge, marshalled by Jhared, de Lyonesse and the other knight commanders. The fleur-de-lys standard was unfurled, and it snapped madly in the tearing winds.

  Leoncoeur himself flew above the vanguard, mounted on Beaquis. The remaining pegasi all now carried riders, each one hand-chosen to command the powerful beasts. The last of the lances had been distributed, and the clerics had cried out their benedictions. Every horse was already lathered with sweat from the desperate ride, and now yet more trials awaited them. The foremost were already stamping impatiently, tossing their manes and itching for the charge.

  Leoncoeur urged Beaquis to climb, surveying the battle. The West Gate was closest, and was already tightly surrounded. An army of such immensity that it defied the senses stretched all around the walls, hammering at the perimeter amid a storm of projectiles and flashing spell-discharge. Trolls lumbered through the swarms of lesser warriors, crazed by mushrooms and waving flaming brands, only matched in ferocity by the towering, one-eyed beastmen from the deep forest. The noise was incredible – a wild chant of Shyish! bellowed out to the roll and slam of endless drums.

  Already the defences were reeling. Leoncoeur could see the gates begin to buckle, the first siege ladders hitting their mark, the great engines crawling closer to unload their lethal contents. The topmost towers rose precariously above the tumult, looking impossibly fragile set against the hurricane that had enveloped them.

  There would be no returning from this. To enter that maelstrom was to give up hope, to strike a single blow before the tide crushed them.

  Leoncoeur looked down at his army, forged in haste and driven mercilessly across the mountains. Knight after knight took his place on the ridge, resplendent in plate armour and bearing the sigils of his heritage. It was a devastating force, one that Leoncoeur would have trusted to match any foe of the known world – until this day.

  Now all had changed. The old rules had been ripped up and discarded, lain waste before the all-consuming hunger of the Ruinous Powers.

  ‘Jhared, lead your blades west!’ he cried. ‘Cut to the gate, and slay all before you! Teach them the fear of Bretonnia!’

  The flame-haired knight saluted, still grinning as he slammed his visor down.

  ‘De Lyonesse, ride east, cutting off the assault on the southern walls! Hold them as long as you can, then break for Jhared’s position. Hit them hard! Hit them fast! They shall die choking on their laughter!’

  The last of the vanguard drew up, over a thousand fully armoured warriors, each bearing a heavy lance. More waves readied themselves behind, forming a devastating series of thundering charges.

  Leoncoeur surveyed the lines one last time, feeling pride mingle with raw grief.

  They were beautiful – brave, vital and vivid, a flash of flamboyant bravado amid a world of gathering decay.

  You will die alone, my champion, far from home.

  Leoncoeur pulled Beaquis’s head north, facing the burning city head-on, and flourished his blade.

  ‘Now, the final test!’ he roared. ‘Unto death! Unto the end! Ride, my brothers! Ride!’

  The charge took them clear of the gate, hurtling northwards under the first pale rays of the shrouded sun. Helborg lead the vanguard, driving his steed hard and balancing the long lance against the buck of the gallop. The Reiksguard came with him, just as they had in the north, an ivory wedge of steel-tipped murder carving its
way through the heart of the mustered enemy.

  For a few moments, it looked as if the beastmen did not see the danger. They lumbered towards the walls as before, roaring and bellowing in a stinking fug of battle-madness, but then even they seemed to see their fate unravelling, and sudden fear kindled in their feral eyes. By the time they recognised their peril, the lances were among them.

  ‘Sigmar!’ Helborg cried out, taking a raw pleasure from the surging pace of the charge.

  Behind him, a thousand knights spread out across the battlefield, sweeping in an all-consuming line across the fire-flecked plain. Every rider lowered his lance, selecting a target and guiding his steed with unerring precision.

  The two forces collided with a crack and whirl and thud of limbs breaking, shafts splintering and bones shivering. The Reiksguard vanguard hit as one, smashing into the ragged lines of beastmen and northmen, driving a long wound through the body of the horde.

  Helborg speared a raging gor in the heart, and felt the impact radiate along his arm as he lifted the monster bodily from the earth. The shaft plunged deep, eviscerating it cleanly, before breaking mid-length under its weight. He discarded the remnants and drew his runefang, circling it into position before plunging it into the neck of another war-gor.

  The Reiksguard were followed out by more Knightly Orders, each sweeping after the Reiksmarshal’s spear-tip in successive waves. Most rode mighty warhorses, but some lumbered into battle astride the ferocious demigryphs, land-bound scions of the larger griffons, with all their cousins’ furious temper and scything claws.

  The main charge thundered on, plunging further into the rotten depths of the limitless hosts. The momentum was savage, carrying the horsemen in a wild hunt of speed, flair and unshackled bloodlust. Having had to watch powerlessly for days as their city was slowly consumed by Rot and sorcery, the pride of Altdorf’s mighty armies was now cut loose.

  Helborg pressed northwards, slashing out with his blade to slice down two fleeing beastmen, before his steed trod three more into the slurry underfoot. Ahead of him, he could see greater concentrations of heavily armed warriors trudging into battle, each company bearing a skull-topped standard bearing sigils of the plague-gods. The truly vast creatures of Chaos – shaggoths, ogres, cygors – bellowed as they swayed towards the interlopers who dared to take the fight to the open.