She looked at him in shock. Then she clearly saw the pride and power in his face, and her smile broadened. ‘As are we all, my love.’
She drove her horse on down the wall, drawing her longsword and cutting down everyone in her path as the other lords landed, looking around in wonder at the abandoned battlements.
‘There is still work to do!’ cried Galan, pointing his spear down into the courtyard and the streets beyond. There were hundreds of wounded and fleeing soldiers. Lots were running into buildings to hide, but many were crawling into sewers, fleeing underground like rats. ‘The traitors refused every entreaty to peace. Show no mercy!’
He clicked his heels and his drake leapt from the wall, hurtling down towards the crowds. Figures scattered as he landed, not even trying to defend themselves.
‘What is this?’ called Nia, landing near him. ‘They battled so hard to hold the outlying keeps, and now, now that we reach the capital, they have no fight in them.’
Galan sat back in his saddle, watching the slaughter. ‘They know they’ve lost.’ He looked around the castle. ‘It’s even bigger than I expected.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe this is a more suitable place to rule from?’
‘No,’ replied Galan. ‘I will make an example of this city. I will leave no brick standing. I will raze it to the ground. And if anyone considers challenging my rule again, they will only need to look here to see what their fate will be.’
He pointed to a bright, gleaming needle of white stone. ‘Make for the central keep. The ringleaders will be there.’
Galan turned to the lords who were landing in the courtyard behind him. ‘Open the gates, assemble the men. Gather the war machines. Bring this city down.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sacrament of Blood
Trachos’ light flashed over barrel-vaulted ceilings, revealing the incredible age of the sewers. The stones had been rounded and smoothed by the centuries, slumping and swelling in places, as though bloated by tumours. It looked like they were crawling through diseased innards.
The foetid river running down the tunnel was knee-deep on Maleneth, but that meant Gotrek was wading up to his thighs. The water had no chance of slowing the Slayer though. While Trachos called out directions, a brass compass in one hand and his blazing sceptre in the other, Gotrek raced through the filth, vaulting pipes and leaping over the remains of old cave-ins.
‘This is more like it!’ he shouted, his greataxe slung across his back as he rushed through the darkness. He slapped the wall. ‘Good, solid work. I could be back in the Eight Peaks.’
Trachos looked to Maleneth for an explanation.
She shrugged. ‘He shares your enthusiasm for drains. How nice.’
‘The north pipe,’ said Trachos, casting light down another tunnel.
Gotrek nodded, humming cheerfully to himself as he splashed off in that direction.
‘How long will this take?’ Maleneth asked, catching up with Trachos.
‘It looks like the main sewer runs from the central tower out to the city walls. We should be able to take a more direct route than if we were above ground. We might be there in less than an hour.’
She was about to reply when the tunnels juddered. Dust and brick fell from overhead, throwing up splashes of muck and clouds of flies, and Maleneth would have fallen if Trachos hadn’t grabbed her arm.
‘Prince of Murder,’ she said. ‘What was that?’
He shook his head. ‘Maybe Nagash’s storms are powerful enough to shake city walls?’
‘I don’t think so. It didn’t seem like that in Klemp. I think that’s the flesh-eaters entering the city.’
He strode on through the sewer, hurrying after the disappearing shape of Gotrek. ‘Ghouls? How could they shake walls?’
‘Siege engines?’
Trachos shook his head. ‘You’ve seen them. How would they have the skill to use war machines?’
‘Remember that giant?’ she said, racing after him. ‘The thing that Gotrek fought in the Barren Points? Perhaps they have creatures like that up there?’
He glanced at her, then nodded. ‘We need to move faster.’
They ran as fast as they could through the effluence, but after a few minutes there was another tremor, then another, and Maleneth found herself struggling to keep up with Gotrek.
‘What if he succeeds?’ she gasped, swatting flies away.
‘What?’
‘What if we make it to the tower and Gotrek holds back the ghouls until the prince performs his spell?’
He shrugged. ‘We have to hope that Lhosia and Prince Volant are right – that her rite will protect this city.’
‘They said it would protect the Unburied. That’s not quite the same thing.’
‘What option do we have?’
‘None, but that’s not really what I meant, anyway. If this works how Gotrek hopes it will – if the Erebid really do send him to Nagash – what will you do then?’
Trachos glanced at her. ‘I will…’ He hurried on, shaking his head. ‘I will go with him.’
‘Really?’ She nodded to Gotrek. His broad, hulking shape was clearly picked out in Trachos’ light, and they could hear him humming cheerfully to himself and laughing at jokes he was muttering under his breath. ‘You’d follow that to the Lord of Undeath?’
‘Whenever you speak of him, your voice is full of such bile.’
She laughed. ‘Of course. Look at him. Who wouldn’t find him ridi–’
‘But…’ Trachos looked at her again. ‘Since the Barren Points, I hear something else in your voice too.’
‘What?’
‘You have seen the same thing I have seen. The Slayer is not just some wandering brigand. He’s important. He means something. He’s here for a reason. The priestess saw it too. And so does the Morn-Prince. Gotrek has more than his own doom riding on those tattooed shoulders.’
She sneered, but could not find it in herself to disagree.
‘What will you do if he succeeds?’ asked Trachos. ‘If they send him to Nagash, will you just stay here?’
‘I don’t know!’ she snapped. ‘None of my options seem particularly enticing at the moment.’
She was about to change the subject when an explosion rocked through the sewer, bathing her in amethyst light.
They fell into the muck, unbalanced by a tremor even more violent than the preceding ones.
Maleneth thrashed under the water for a moment, then lurched from the filth, cursing and spitting.
Gotrek was up ahead, shrugging off rubble and looking up at an opening that had appeared in the ceiling. A column of purple light was shining down through the hole and it framed the Slayer, picking him out of the darkness.
‘Trachos,’ hissed Maleneth, realising that his torchlight had faded.
She whirled around, scattering flies and water. The light from overhead was enough to reveal him, trapped beneath the surface of the water, pinned in place by a huge section of pipe that had been dislodged by the blast.
‘Can you breathe underwater?’ she muttered, rushing back towards him, realising how little she knew about Sigmar’s storm-born warriors.
She could see him straining in the murk, trying to heave the shattered masonry off his chest.
Let the dullard die, said the voice in her head. Good riddance.
To Maleneth’s surprise, she found that she was not willing to leave Trachos behind. Something about their conversations had intrigued her. And she felt that they were unfinished. Besides, she had a feeling that Trachos might still prove to be the key to getting the rune back to Azyr.