He glanced at the Flame, where it crackled in the centre of the immense temple rotunda. The fire burned silver-white, casting its light throughout the main chamber of the temple, warming the crowd and illuminating the enormous bas-reliefs depicting Ulric’s defeat of the bloodwyrm, his breach of the stormvault and countless other deeds of heroism performed by the wolf-god. More and more people had begun to seek the comfort of its presence as the unnatural darkness fell. Martak couldn’t fault them for it. It was the embodiment of Ulric’s strength and rage, and for that reason it provided a beacon of hope to the wolf-god’s chosen people. It was said that should the fire go out, winter unending would grip the world.
As the thought crossed his mind, he caught sight of a low, lean shape prowling through the legs of the crowd. The shadow-wolf had followed him, it seemed. Its yellow gaze met his own briefly and then it vanished into the forest of humanity. He was about to follow it, when he heard a voice say, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
Martak turned, and looked up at Valten. He grunted and shrugged. ‘One fire is much like another, to one used to doing without.’
‘I grew up in a forge,’ Valten said, simply. ‘There’s a strange sort of beauty in fire, I think. It is all colours and none, it provides comfort and light, but can kill or blind the unwary. A tool of both creation and destruction… rather like a hammer.’ He hefted Ghal Maraz for emphasis. ‘Sigmar built an empire with this weapon, and destroyed the works of his enemies.’
Martak smiled sourly. ‘Very pretty. Will that homily go in your next speech?’
Valten chuckled. ‘I doubt there’ll be time for one. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to tell me that you’re about to go below.’ He looked at Martak, and the wizard shifted uncomfortably. Valten had a way of staring right into a man’s soul. He never judged what he saw there, though that only made the feeling worse.
‘Yes, it’s time,’ Martak said, leaning on his staff. ‘Scouts have reported that there are ratmen massing in the depths. And Archaon’s rabble didn’t walk all the way here just to sit outside and look menacing.’
‘I know,’ Valten said. He looked up, and closed his eyes. ‘It’s almost a relief.’
‘Not exactly how I would put it,’ Martak said.
Valten smiled. He looked at the wizard, and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Then, you’re a gloomy old bear, and there’s no denying it.’
Martak snorted. ‘And you’re a cheerful lamb, is that it?’
Valten’s smile faded. ‘No. No, I can feel the weight of this moment, Gregor, as well as you. It has pressed down on my soul and my mind since I first swung my father’s hammer in anger at the Auric Bastion. It has sought to forge me into the shape it wishes, the shape it requires, but sometimes… I do not think it will succeed.’ He dropped his hand and hefted Ghal Maraz. ‘This is part of it, I think. Burden and blessing in one,’ he said, turning the ancient warhammer in his hands. ‘Sometimes, this hammer is as light as a feather. Other times, I can barely lift it. I am not certain that it is my hand which is meant to wield it.’ He looked at Martak. ‘Sometimes I wish Luthor were still here, to tell me that I am wrong, and that my course is set.’ He smiled sadly. ‘No offence, Gregor.’
‘None taken,’ Martak said, waving aside the apology. ‘I wish Huss were here as well. And while we’re wishing, I’ll add the Emperor, Mandred Skavenslayer and Magnus the Pious. Because Taal knows that we could use them now.’
Valten’s smile turned fierce. ‘We shall just have to act in their place, my friend. We can do no less. Middenheim stands. The Emperor and Graf Boris charged me to keep this city and her people safe, and I will do so or die in the attempt.’
Martak was about to reply, when he felt something stir in him. He clutched his head, and heard a great cry which seemed to echo up from every stone in the temple. It was as if a legion of wolves had howled as one, and then fallen silent. Valten grabbed him as he stumbled. ‘Gregor, what is it, are you–’
Wordlessly, Martak moaned. He felt as if there were something missing in him, as if someone had carved a portion of his heart out. He heard Valten gasp, and blinked blearily as he tried to clear his head. As he forced himself erect, he saw that the crowd had moved back from the Flame of Ulric. Men and women were wailing and moaning in fear. Valten raised his hands, trying to calm the growing panic. Martak pushed away from him and staggered towards the Flame, staring at it in disbelief.
As he watched, the Flame of Ulric guttered, flickered and died. The chamber was plunged into darkness, and the crowd began to stream away, seeking safety elsewhere. He heard the screams of the trampled, the wailing of lost children, and Valten’s voice, rising above it all, trying vainly to impose order on the chaos. And beneath it all, beneath the cries and the shouts, beneath the fear… laughter. The laughter of the Dark Gods as Middenheim’s hope faded, leaving behind only ashes.
Martak closed his eyes. Something itched at the back of his mind, like someone speaking just at the edge of his hearing, but he couldn’t catch it for the laughter that echoed in his head. He gripped his staff so tightly that the wood creaked in protest. He felt cold and hot all at once, and his skull felt two sizes too small as images crashed across the surface of his mind’s eye. There were shapes squirming in the dark behind his eyes, impossibly vast and foul, and they were scratching eagerly at the roof of the sky and the roots of the earth. He saw a shadowy figure confronted by wolves of ice, and heard the moan of a god as the Flame dimmed. He heard the bray of horns and the rumble of drums, and felt his guts clench in protest as the moment he’d feared came round at last.
A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him out of his fugue. ‘Gregor – it’s time. The enemy are advancing,’ Valten said. ‘I must go to the walls.’
‘And I must go below,’ Martak croaked. He looked at Valten, and as he did, the daemonic laughter crowding his thoughts suddenly fell silent. There were some things that even daemons could not bear to look at. ‘The gods go with you, Herald.’
‘I know that one, at least, walks with me,’ Valten said. He lifted Ghal Maraz and saluted Martak. ‘Middenheim stands, Gregor. And so do we.’
‘But for how long?’ Martak murmured, as he watched the Herald of Sigmar depart.
‘That, my friends, is nothing less than a bad day wrapped in fur,’ Wendel Volker said, indicating the army that was on the march on the plain below, as he upended the jug and gulped down the tasteless Kislevite alcohol. It was the last of its kind, since Kislev no longer existed, and he intended to enjoy every foul drop in the hours before his inevitable messy demise. He only wished he had a bottle of good Tilean wine to wash it down with.
He stood atop the gatehouse, having shooed the men who were supposed to be on duty back down into the structure. He stood on the trapdoor, so that he could have a few moments of uninterrupted drinking. The taverns were packed, and every wine cellar and beer hall in the city had been drunk dry three days ago. He’d managed to squirrel away the jug of Kislevite vodka, but it was almost as bad as being sober.
Volker had come up in the world since his days as a captain in the fortress of Heldenhame. Now he wore the armour and regalia of a member of the Reiksguard, given to him by Kurt Helborg himself as a reward for salvaging what was left of Heldenhame’s garrison and bringing it to Altdorf just in time to bolster the city’s defences. It wasn’t exactly the sort of reward that Volker had hoped for, but one couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially in times like these. And the armour had come in handy more than once, for all that it was dratted heavy and rubbing him raw in all the wrong spots.