Volker handed the jug off to one of his companions, a big man clad in sea-green armour, decorated with piscine motifs where it hadn’t been battered into shapelessness. ‘A bad day, Wendel, or the bad day?’ the latter said, as he took a swig. Erkhart Dubnitz was the last knight of an order that wasn’t officially recognised by anyone with any sense. The Knights of Manann had fought to the bitter end when the plague-fleets had sailed into Marienburg’s harbour, but Dubnitz alone had escaped the freistadt; he’d been sent to Altdorf, bearing tidings of warning that had, sadly, not been heeded until it was far too late. Now he was a man without a country, fighting to preserve a nation not his own. It was in Altdorf that Volker had made the acquaintance of the Marienburger, and found a kindred spirit, of sorts. At least where it concerned spirits of the alcoholic variety.
‘What’s the difference, Erkhart? Either way, we’re the ones it’s happening to,’ the third man standing atop the gatehouse said. He waved aside the jug when it was offered to him. ‘No, thank you. I’d rather die with a clear head, if it’s all the same to you.’ Hector Goetz had the face of a man who’d seen the worst the world had to offer, and hadn’t come away impressed. His armour bore the same hallmarks of hard fighting that Volker’s and Dubnitz’s did, but it was covered in the signs and sigils of the Order of the Blazing Sun. As far as Volker could tell, Goetz was the last templar of the Myrmidian Order left alive. Most, it was said, had died with Talabheim. Goetz had been there, but he refused to talk about it. Volker, a native of Talabecland himself, resisted the urge to press him.
In truth, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He’d left his parents, his kin, and several enthusiastic and entertaining paramours behind in Talabheim when he’d been given a commission in the Heldenhame garrison. That they were all likely dead had yet to pierce the armour of numbness which was the only thing protecting his sanity at this point. It was either numbness or madness now, and Volker had seen too much to think that there was any sort of relief in madness these days.
‘Suit yourself, Hector. More for me and young Wendel,’ Dubnitz said, with a grin. He passed the jug to Volker, who took another swig, and then gave a mournful burp.
‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘Dubnitz, be a friend and go get another one.’
‘There isn’t another one,’ Dubnitz said. ‘Gentlemen, we are officially out of alcohol. Sound the retreat.’
Volker cradled the empty jug to his chest. ‘Why bother? There’s nowhere to go.’
‘Nonsense. The horizon is right over there.’
‘He’s right, Erkhart. There’s nowhere to go. The gods are dead,’ Goetz said softly. His expression became wistful. ‘I thought, for a moment, that they were still with us.’ His face hardened. ‘Then Talabheim happened, and I knew that they were gone.’
Dubnitz’s grin faded. He sighed. ‘It’s a sad thing, when a man outlives his gods.’
‘Aye, and we’re soon to join them,’ Goetz continued. He glanced at Volker. ‘Unless, of course, that Herald of yours has some divine trick up his sleeve.’
‘Not that he’s shared with me, no,’ Volker said. When he’d first seen the Herald of Sigmar in the flesh, he’d been duly awed. The man was everything the priests of Sigmar had promised. A demigod, come down amongst mere mortals to fight at their side and lead them to victory against the enemy. That awe had not faded, in the weeks since, so much as it had matured. There was something about Valten that chased away despair and neutered fear. But he was a man like any other, Volker knew. A good man, a just man, but a man all the same. He was about to elaborate, when Goetz suddenly stiffened and cursed.
‘Well… here we go,’ Dubnitz breathed softly. ‘Time’s up.’
Volker saw a flash of polychromatic light below, rising above the horde. The air took on a greasy tang, and he tasted something foul at the back of his throat. He recognised it easily enough, though he wished he didn’t. The clouds began to thicken and twist, and howling gales of wind rippled across the city. Goetz’s face was pale as he backed away from the ramparts. ‘Daemons,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘They’re calling daemons.’ He clutched at his side, as if in memory of an old wound. ‘I can hear them screaming…’
‘That’s not all,’ Dubnitz said. He pointed out across the city. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that where the western gatehouse is?’
Volker turned and saw a column of smoke rising over the city to the west. His mouth felt dry. ‘Oh, gods,’ he rasped. He twisted about as a dull rumble filled the air, and saw a second cloud, this one a sickly greenish hue, rise over the city’s eastern gatehouse. Then, a half-second later, the world gave a sickening lurch as the whole gatehouse shook, nearly knocking him from his feet. He heard screams from below, and thin trickles of green smoke began to creep around the edges of the trapdoor. ‘What the devil–?’
Dubnitz suddenly reached out and grabbed the back of his cuirass, hauling Volker back, even as a blade hissed through the air where his head had been. ‘That’s the devil,’ Dubnitz said conversationally as a strange apparition, hunched and wrapped in black, landed on the rampart and sprang towards them, a serrated blade clutched in its verminous paws.
Volker acted instinctively, bringing the jug up and catching his attacker in the skull. The clay jug exploded and the creature fell twitching. ‘Skaven,’ he said dumbly, staring down at it.
‘Really, and here I thought it was a halfling with scabies,’ Dubnitz said, drawing his sword as more of the creatures appeared, scrambling over the edge of the ramparts. ‘Where are the blasted guards?’ he growled, as he hacked down a leaping ratman.
‘Dead, if that gas is what I think it is,’ Goetz said. He had his own blade in hand, and effortlessly blocked a blow from one of the black-clad skaven. ‘It’s poison. Don’t let it touch you.’ As he spoke, he moved away from the trapdoor, which was fuming steadily.
‘That’d explain why the vermin are wearing masks,’ Volker grunted as he booted a skaven in the chest and off the rampart. He swung his sword about in a tight arc, driving his opponents back. He heard the muffled squeal of chains and cranks, and knew that the gas had only been a means to an end. ‘They’re lowering the drawbridge. They’re going to let the northmen into the city!’
‘Well, sod this for a game of sailors, then,’ Dubnitz said. He rushed towards the inner rampart which overlooked the courtyard of the gatehouse below, and, in a rattle of armour, vaulted over the edge, taking a squealing skaven with him. Volker looked at Goetz, and then, as one, both knights followed their companion over the rampart, leaving the astonished skaven staring after them.
Volker screamed until he struck the hay cart, and from there it was curses. He rolled off the cart, every limb aching, and hit the cobbles with a crash. The body of the skaven that Dubnitz had caught up flopped to the ground beside him. The big knight grinned down at him, and offered him a hand. ‘On your feet, young Wendel – we’ve got unwelcome visitors on the way, and our swords are needed.’
Spitting hay, Volker allowed Dubnitz to haul him to his feet. ‘Did you know this hay cart was here the whole time?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ Dubnitz said. ‘You learn a lot, being a drunkard. For instance, always make sure you have a soft place to land handy, just in case. Now help me extricate Goetz, before we’re knee-deep in murderous daemon-fondlers.’