He was already moving forwards as the body flopped to the ground. Swords and spears sought him from every direction, and he chopped and slashed, trying to clear himself room. The Empire troops were beginning to waver. Already the rear ranks were retreating. But there were still enough of them to prove troublesome. Tilea, Estalia, maybe even Cathay, but no – Kislev. You chose to go to Kislev, he thought. But that was a lie. There had been no choice. He and Horvath and all of the others, the whole innumerable horde-to-end-all-hordes, were like drowning men caught in a maelstrom. There was no way to break its pull, no way to escape. You could only go with the tide, and hope you drowned later, rather than sooner.
Or, in the case of some men, that you drowned at all.
Count Mordrek lashed out with the flat of his blade and his fist, driving back his own allies. Marauders stumbled back in confusion as Mordrek cleared a space between the two sides. The soldiers of the Empire, in contrast to their enemies, seemed only too glad for the momentary respite. Mordrek whirled about and pointed at a figure on horseback with his sword. ‘Herald of Sigmar! I see thee, I name thee and I demand thy presence!’ he roared, in archaic Reikspiel. ‘Count Mordrek challenges thee, son of the comet.’
Canto lowered his own blade. ‘So that’s why you were in such a blasted hurry,’ he muttered. Around him, Horvath and the others had realised what was about to happen. Gore-encrusted weapons began to smash against shields, or thump against the cobbles. Canto examined the warrior that Mordrek had called to, and felt a stirring of recognition as the man urged his horse through the ranks of the state troops. He’d seen that face before, during the battle at the Auric Bastion. And he recognised the heavy warhammer clutched in his hand, as well. ‘Skull-Splitter,’ he hissed.
‘What?’ Horvath grunted.
‘That’s Sigmar’s hammer, dolt,’ Canto said. ‘The Skull-Splitter itself. I saw it used once, a long time ago. Some self-righteous prig from Nuln was using it to put the fear of his god into the enemy at the battle of the Bokha Palaces. Like a thunderbolt wrapped in gold,’ he murmured, lost for a moment in images of the past. That was when he’d first set his foot on the path to immortality and ruin. In Kislev, when another Everchosen had been knocking on the door of the world, Canto had been given a choice. And he’d made the wrong one. But who knew old Wheezy von Bildhofen would become Emperor? Not me. How was I to know? Not a sorcerer, am I? I did my bit, he thought, centuries of bitterness welling up as fresh as the day he’d chosen not to slip a knife in the back of his old school-mate, out of some misguided sense of – what? – friendship? Pity? Or something else… Fear, maybe.
And now here we are again, Canto. Part of the Army of the End Times, only this time you’re being honest about whose side you’re on, aren’t you? he thought, watching… Valten, that was his name, riding towards them, carrying the weapon of a god. Unease gnawed at his gut as Valten drew closer. It wasn’t just the hammer; it was everything about him – the set of his shoulders, the armour he wore, the look in his eyes. All of it screamed ‘danger’, the same way von Bildhofen had, so many centuries ago.
‘On this day, I at last see clearly. The world is once more real to me. The voices of the gods have guided me to this moment. Time, fate and destiny grow thin, and there is only the now. A chance to feel alive,’ Mordrek continued as Valten approached. His voice, rusty with disuse, began to grow stronger as he spoke. ‘The gods demand that I kill you, Herald, and then they will free me. But they lie. They always lie, even when it serves no purpose.’
Valten slid from his horse and strode towards Mordrek, hammer in hand. As he drew close, Canto felt a quiver of fear blossom in him. He looked around and saw that he was not alone in feeling out of sorts. A shape, larger than any man, at once ghostly and somehow more real than the world around it, crouched within that husk of flesh, and it was hungry. It was so terribly hungry. It hungered for split skulls and splintered bones, for battle and cleansing fire. In Valten’s footsteps, Canto could hear the rattle of spears, the roar of warriors, the howl of wolves and, above it all, the dull, ponderous rhythm of a hammer slamming down on an anvil. He’d heard that sound before, at the Bokha Palaces, in the words of a man named Magnus. It rang in his skull like the stroke of doom, and he began to edge back.
‘What is that? What is it?’ Horvath growled hoarsely, eyes wide. ‘Is it a daemon?’
‘Did you think we were the only ones with gods, you blood-drunk fool?’ Canto snapped.
A warrior, unable to control himself, broke from the ranks and charged towards Valten, howling out a prayer to the Skull Throne. Mordrek cut his legs out from under him before he’d gone far, and then beheaded the writhing spawn that erupted from the dying man’s tattooed flesh. He spun, arms spread, driving them back with the force of his fury. ‘This day is mine! I have been waiting for it always. I will not be denied. Not by gods or men or even the Three-Eyed King himself,’ he roared.
Point made, he turned back to Valten, who had stopped some distance away, hammer held low. Mordrek lifted his sword. ‘I know the fire which snarls in me, Herald. Even in death, it burns. It cannot be extinguished, not even by the gods themselves. It can only be snuffed by the hand of the one fated to do it. By your hand! Never more to be raised up, never more to be kindled anew. Kill me if you can, Herald of Sigmar,’ the tall warrior intoned. ‘And Count Mordrek, once-lord of Brass Keep, once-elector, once-son of a forgotten Emperor, shall sing your praises in the world to come.’ He struck his cuirass with a clenched fist.
‘Gladly,’ Valten said. That single word sent a ripple of unrest through the men around Canto, and he could not blame them. The word was a promise, and a prophecy. Mordrek made a sound deep in his throat, like an eager dog, and he sprang forwards.
Cursed blade and godly hammer connected in a shower of sparks. A shriek, like that of a dying goat, echoed through the streets as the daemon trapped in Mordrek’s weapon felt the touch of Ghal Maraz. They duelled back and forth, moving almost too fast for Canto to follow.
Mordrek lunged, stamped and thrust, wielding his sword two-handed. Valten blocked every blow but launched few of his own, content to prolong the fight for as long as possible. A moment later, Canto realised why. Past the fight, he saw that the Empire ranks were beginning to thin. He felt a smile creep across his face. Clever, he thought. No wonder Valten had agreed to the duel. While they were occupied watching Mordrek work out his frustrations, the enemy were slipping away. He considered bringing it to someone’s attention, and then dismissed the thought. He wasn’t in charge, and it wasn’t as if there were anywhere to go. If those men didn’t die here, they’d die somewhere else. At this point, it was a foregone conclusion.
Mordrek’s blade screeched as it skidded across Valten’s pauldron, drawing smoke from the metal. Valten turned into the blow and his hammer smashed into Mordrek’s belly, catapulting him off his feet. Mordrek hit the ground and rolled. Valten stalked forwards as Mordrek levered himself up, one arm wrapped around his stomach. Mordrek, still on one knee, extended his sword towards Valten, holding him at bay.
‘Pain,’ Mordrek rumbled. ‘I have felt so much pain. Pain will not kill me, Herald. My will is strong, and I will not be denied.’ He lunged to his feet, sword whirling over his head. Valten ducked aside as the blade snarled down, cleaving a cobblestone in two. Mordrek spun, and his sword lashed out again. It connected with a hastily interposed hammer. Even so, the force of the blow nearly knocked Valten from his feet. ‘Fight, damn you,’ Mordrek roared. ‘Fight me, Herald. I am here to kill you – to spare the Three-Eyed King your wrath, and see that the desires of the gods are not thwarted. But I do not care about Archaon, or the petty wants of fate. What shall be or would have been is not my concern. Fight me. Kill me!’