“I’ve seen my share of wounds, boy,” said Wolfgart. “That’s not nothing.”
“I’ll ride with you,” stated Wenyld, and there was no disagreeing with him.
“Ulric keep you,” said Sigmar, sharing a glance with Wolfgart.
Wenyld saw it and said, “Don’t worry, if I’m going to die on you I’ll hand the banner over first. Can’t have it falling, eh? Not now.”
“Not now,” agreed Sigmar, turning his horse and taking a moment to survey the battle. It was difficult to see much through the mass of the dead and the unnatural darkness, but he saw enough to know that they had little time to waste. The northern flank was in danger of collapsing, the Red Scythes embroiled in a furious battle with mounted black knights and a terrible avatar of destruction, while a mass of wolves and shambling corpses swept past the Asoborns towards the city walls. He couldn’t see what had become of Freya, and Alfgeir’s riders had become bogged down in the ranks of the skeleton warriors.
“We’re on our own here,” said Wolfgart, seeing the same thing.
“Looks that way,” said Sigmar. “But I always knew that would be how it ended.”
“Then let’s finish this before I lose my nerve,” said Wolfgart, hefting his sword over his shoulder and wiping the blood from his face. “All these men dying around us will be for nothing if we can’t get through to that bony bastard.”
Sigmar nodded, searching the darkness ahead for Nagash. The necromancer was not hard to find, a towering black form atop a low hill beyond the road. Swirls of sable smoke coiled around Nagash, his undying body a black tear in the fabric of night through which all the cold of the Grey Vaults leached into the world.
Unberogen horsemen formed up on the banner, bloodied and weary after their long ride, but hungry for more.
“Our foe is within reach!” shouted Sigmar, pointing Ghal-Maraz towards the hill upon which stood the necromancer.
“On! On!” cried Wolfgart in answer.
And the charge began again.
While Sigmar punched through the hordes of the dead, the people of Reikdorf marched in defence of their city.
Positioned behind the main battle line, they were thrilled and terrified, clutching makeshift weapons in the hope that they would not have to use them. It had been all too easy to follow Sigmar and his warriors through the ruined Ostgate on a wave of exhilaration, but as the rain battered down and the darkness closed in, fear returned to erode the fragile courage that had been built within the city walls.
In the centre of the mass of people gathered to the south of the gate Daegal felt his terror climb to new heights. He had fought the army of Khaled al-Muntasir by the river and terror flowed through his veins at the thought of facing the army of the dead once more. He knew it had been his cowardice that had seen the Asoborn army break, his panic that had spread to the warriors around him and caused the defeat.
Too ashamed to ride out with his fellow tribesmen, he had hidden within the city and managed to avoid anyone that knew him. Instead, he had been swept up in the borrowed courage of Reikdorf’s people and found strength enough to march with them to this patch of ground before the walls.
“Please don’t let me fail again,” he whispered to the gods.
Khaled al-Muntasir watched the battle unfold, admiring the strength of purpose invigorating this mortal army. He had fought for Nagash since before leaving Athel Tamara, and had been less than impressed by the skill and resilience of this northern empire. How could such a people claim to be the masters of this land?
Then he had fought the remnants of the Asoborns at the wooded hill, and the first chinks of doubt had entered his mind. Now, as Sigmar drew ever closer, Khaled al-Muntasir found himself wondering if he had grossly underestimated this barbarian Emperor. True, his people were little better than savages, but they possessed a primitive nobility that had surprised him. Individually they were weak and pathetic, but welded together by Sigmar, they were stronger than even they knew.
Khaled al-Muntasir glanced towards Nagash, wondering if he too had underestimated these mortals. It seemed absurd that he should entertain such doubts, for the host of the dead was already beginning to envelop the mortal army. Krell was butchering the warriors in the north, and the south was on the brink of collapse. The carrion eaters and corpses were already moving on the city walls, and Markus would soon end the resistance in the centre.
So why did he still feel so uneasy?
His black steed tossed its head, snorting and stamping the ground as it smelled the blood on the air. It was impatient to join the slaughter, and its hide steamed in the relentless rain cascading from the sky. Khaled al-Muntasir lifted the lank fabric of his cloak, knowing the material was ruined.
He jerked the reins of his mount, and turned his horse to the north.
Nagash’s cold gaze fell upon him and he felt the necromancer’s displeasure.
“The northern flank is holding out,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “I will take some riders and break it open.”
Nagash didn’t answer, his attention firmly fixed on the glittering crown upon Sigmar’s brow as the Emperor rode straight for him. Khaled al-Muntasir drew his sword and rode north, grateful to be free of that frozen, penetrating gaze.
The vampire looked to the east, to the lands already taken by the dead, and saw moonlight glittering from distant spires and forgotten castles perched high on rocky bluffs. He smiled to himself, picturing a reign of terror that could be unleashed from such a lair.
“Yes,” he said to himself. “That would be very fine.”
Alfgeir watched as the thing that had once been Count Markus of the Menogoths circled him, swinging the sword Govannon had forged for him. Death had erased none of the swordsman count’s skill with a blade, and Alfgeir knew he could not prevail against him. Markus saw the defeat in his eyes and licked his thin, bloodless lips.
“Why don’t you come down off that horse?” said the vampire. “Make it a fair fight?”
“You have my sword,” said Alfgeir. “How is that a fair fight?”
“True,” smiled Markus. “Come down anyway. I can kill you just as easily on the back of your horse, but at least on foot we’ll be eye to eye.”
“Fair enough,” said Alfgeir, unhitching an axe from the back of his saddle. It was a short-hafted axe, a backup weapon, and would be a poor defence against his own sword. Though the dead pressed in all around, the Great Hall Guard held them back. There was no way they could now ride to Sigmar’s aid, and the bitter gall of failure tasted of ashes in his mouth.
Markus spun the sword, its glittering length moving like a snake in the vampire’s grip. Alfgeir remembered fencing the Menogoth count in a friendly duel many years ago. It had been a humbling experience to be so outclassed when he rated himself highly as a swordsman.
Alfgeir faced the blood drinker, quelling his hatred for this thing that wore the face of an honourable man. He felt the ice of the vampire’s nearness, gritting his teeth against its chill. Markus took up the en garde position, and Alfgeir lunged forward, the axe blade chopping for the vampire’s head.
Markus stepped back, rolling the sword around Alfgeir’s axe and stabbing the tip through his pauldron and into his shoulder. Alfgeir tried to shut out the pain, but it spread to his chest and he staggered. The vampire spun around Alfgeir, slashing the sword across his other shoulder and neatly slicing away his other pauldron.
“Come on,” sneered Markus. “I remember you were better than this. Not much better, it’s true, but better nonetheless.”
“That was ten years ago,” grunted Alfgeir, pushing himself upright.
“Really? You’ve aged badly, my friend.”
“Ulric damn you to the Grey Vaults,” hissed Alfgeir. “You are not my friend!”
Markus came at him again, his sword dancing like a forking bolt of lightning as it whipped around Alfgeir’s clumsy axe swings. Time and time again, the blade licked out and cut pieces of his armour away. Alfgeir was left bloodied and in p
ain with each blow.
“Kill me and be done with it!” bellowed Alfgeir, and Markus stabbed the sword an inch into the muscle of his thigh. He bled from a dozen wounds, none serious enough to kill him, but all painful enough to sap his strength with every passing second.
“Nonsense,” replied Markus. “You haven’t even begun to fight properly yet.”
Alfgeir lifted his axe again, but Markus spun around him, the sword cutting down in a blur of rune-etched silver. Agonising pain shot through Alfgeir’s body, and his vision filled with white light as he reeled from the blow. His entire body was a furnace of agony. He tried to lift his arm to strike one last, desperate blow, but his body wouldn’t obey him.
He saw the axe lying on the ground.
Next to the axe was his arm.
Alfgeir stared in open-mouthed shock at the neatly severed stump where his right arm had been. There was no blood, so clean and cold had the wound been cut. Horror drove him to his knees, and he fought to hold onto consciousness as the terrible nature of his maiming threatened to overwhelm him. His breath came in sharp hikes of panic.
Markus circled him, the stolen sword spinning in his grip as he looked down at Alfgeir.
“Such a shame, you would have made a fine lieutenant,” said the vampire.
“To you?” hissed Alfgeir. “Never.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Markus, raising the sword for the deathblow.
Though the duel had been fought in isolation until now, a figure hurled itself at the vampire, one with a dented bronze helm and a heavy broadsword. Teon slashed his sword at Markus’ neck, but the vampire was faster than any mortal opponent, and the tip of Teon’s blade passed less than a finger’s breadth from his neck.
Markus cut high with his sword and the edge slammed into the side of Teon’s head.
“No!” shouted Alfgeir.
The sword bounced upwards, deflected from its decapitating course by the dent in the side of the helm to slice off the horsehair plume. Teon fell to the ground with a cry of pain, the sword spinning away and landing upright in the marshy ground. Alfgeir snatched up the fallen axe in his left hand and hurled himself at the vampire. Markus brought his sword up to block the crude attack, but Alfgeir had no intention of going blade to blade with the vampire.
He let go of the axe, and it spun through the air toward the vampire. It struck him full in the face and Alfgeir heard bone break over Markus’ shriek of pain. Instinctively, he dropped the sword as his hands flew to his face to stem the tide of dead blood. Alfgeir dropped to the ground, his strength spent in this last, futile act of defiance.
Through tear- and rain-blurred vision, he saw the handle of his sword lying in the mud at the vampire’s feet. He wanted to reach out and grab it. Though it was no more than a foot away, it might as well have been a thousand yards. He closed his eyes as the world went grey and he heard the sweet sound of wolves in the distance.
A cold, winter wind blew from the north and Alfgeir felt his limbs fill with the strength of the pack. He reached out towards the sword, feeling an ice-frosted hand that was more like a clawed paw place the handle in his palm.
His fingers closed on the weapon and he opened his eyes. Snow swirled where no snow had been before and the world around him moved as though slowed to the pace of a glacier’s advance. He saw droplets of blood hanging in the air, a bolt of lightning tracing a leisurely path across the heavens and the frozen breath of nearby warriors gradually expanding from their lips. Markus turned slowly towards him, his face a mask of dark blood and his red eyes filled with terrible hunger. Long fangs jutted from his jaws and his hands had become elongated claws.
Alfgeir surged to his feet, he alone able to move normally. With a roar of hatred, he sliced his sword in a sweeping arc towards the vampire. He had a moment to savour the gelid onset of fear in Markus’ eyes before the blade cut into his neck and parted his head from his shoulders. No sooner had the blade connected than the normal flow of time reasserted itself. Blood spattered, lightning blazed briefly and breath vanished.
Markus collapsed to the ground, his body crumbling within his armour as decay claimed the flesh feast denied it with the blood kiss. Burning with inner embers, the vampire’s body became ashes in moments, a ghostly shriek of torment exploding outwards from its demise.
Alfgeir stood on trembling legs for a second until he could stand no more. He sank to his haunches, utterly drained, and slumped over onto his back. He looked up into the sky, seeing a clear patch where the stars shone through the ghastly canopy of darkness. In the distance he heard wolves again, and smiled as the hurt of his wounds vanished.
He felt hands beneath him, lifting him upright, and the pain returned with a vengeance.
“Alfgeir!” shouted Teon. “Ulric’s bones, how did you move so fast?”
He tried to tell the lad to let him go, that Ulric was calling to him, but the sound of wolves faded into the distance and tears spilled down his cheeks.
“Ulric isn’t ready for me yet,” he whispered.
“Nor me it seems,” said Teon, and Alfgeir saw how lucky the boy was to be alive. The vampire’s blow had taken the plume and the top portion of the helmet, but it had missed the boy’s skull by no more than the width of the blade.
“Looks like you were luckier,” said Alfgeir.
“Luckier than who?” asked Teon, tearing off his cloak and wrapping it around Alfgeir.
“Never mind…”
Teon lifted Alfgeir into his arms and he grunted in pain. He looked at the young man, seeing the grief for his fallen father, but also a strength of character his father had not possessed. Despite the pain, Alfgeir smiled, wondering if this newfound clarity was a result of his near death.
Teon looked down at him. “Chosen by Ulric you are,” said the boy.
“What? No, I was lucky is all.”
“No,” said Teon, lifting Alfgeir onto a horse and climbing up behind him with the white gold banner tucked in the crook of his arm. “Look at your eyes, man. You’ve been chosen.”
Alfgeir lifted his sword blade as Teon turned the horse back to Reikdorf. His face was gaunt and pinched with pain, his leathery skin ashen from exhaustion. He looked into his reflected eyes and a cold breath escaped him.
His eyes were pure white, the hue of northern snows.
Leodan threw himself to the side as the titanic warrior’s black axe swept down, cleaving his fallen horse in two with one blow. Searing pain flared up his leg and he crawled away from this towering slaughterman. Its black axe came up and a hissing name burned itself into Leodan’s mind, a name that was a byword for death on an undreamed of scale in ages past.
Krell…
Rivers of blood had flowed from Krell’s axe, all in service to a dread god of the north, a squatting devourer of blood and skulls. Slain by one of the mountain folk thousands of years ago in an age known by some as the Time of Woes, Krell’s thirst for blood and death was undiminished by the passage of uncounted centuries since his death.
Leodan fumbled for his sword, watching as five of the Red Scythes charged towards the giant warrior.
“No,” he croaked. “Don’t!”
His warning went unheeded, and Krell’s axe swept out, chopping up through the horses and cleaving the riders in two. The return stroke hacked another two to the ground and before the others could strike, Krell was amongst them. One rider died with his head torn from his shoulders, the other as Krell thundered his fist into his chest and crushed his torso to a pulpy mess.
Taleuten warriors surrounded Krell, hacking at his blood-covered plate, but no blade could penetrate his damned armour. Swords scraped over his shoulder guards, axes bounced from his spiked helm and spears shattered upon his breastplate. Nothing could stand against this monstrous force of destruction, and warriors died ten at a time as Krell hacked them down, chopping bodies in two and mangling flesh with every blow from his black-bladed axe.
Leodan crawled away from Krell, weeping in pain and for the loss of hi
s beloved Red Scythes. His leg was afire, the broken ends gouging the meat of his leg with every yard he dragged himself from the slaughter.
His world shrank to the rain-soaked ground, his muddy knuckles dragging his pain-wracked body and the sound of his men dying. Horses screamed in pain as Krell’s axe butchered them too, and men cried in fear as they turned to flee. None could escape Krell’s deadly blade and those terrified cries turned to death screams as the Red Scythes were cut down.
Leodan’s fingers clawed the ground, the earth too sodden for him to gain a purchase. He could go no further and he rolled onto his side. His breathing was coming in shallow gasps, and he coughed blood. His broken rib had nicked his lung and few survived such a wound, least of all those in the middle of a battle with no hope of rescue.
He heard the sound of marching steps behind him, regular and perfectly in time. Metal clashed as armour moved against armour and Leodan smelled the reek of strong beer and pipe smoke. Who would be drinking and smoking in the middle of such a fight?
Someone knelt beside him and he looked up through a haze of tears and rain to see a hundred warriors of the mountain folk armed with heavy axes and hammers. The warrior beside him was armoured head to foot in plates of iron and bronze. The dwarf’s breath smelled of strong beer, and a wooden pipe carved in the shape of a long cavalry horn jutted through a hole specially crafted in his helmet’s visor.
“Rest easy, manling,” said Master Alaric. “We’ll handle this big fella. We killed him once before, and we can do it again.”
Daegal watched the black riders charge the Asoborn shieldwall and heard the crash of splintering lances, breaking shields and the clang of swords. His mouth was dry and his bladder tightened. The riders of the dead surrounded the Queen’s Eagles and he couldn’t see any way they could survive.
“I am a warrior of the Asoborns,” he said, repeating the words like a mantra. “I will not fear this foe. I will not fear this foe.”
The dead streamed around the shieldwall, a host of shambling corpses and skeletal warriors marching towards the city. Scores of wolves loped alongside them, accompanied by darting packs of white-bodied flesheaters. Daegal could not count them, but he knew there were too many for them to handle.