‘Flee, blood-speck, and I shall save your skull for another day,’ Ka’Bandha gurgled, as it glared down at him. ‘Flee, little elf, and do not seek to come between the Huntsman and his prey this night.’
Tyrion straightened, and felt the fire sing in his veins. The light around him began to glow, and the daemon winced. It raised a hand, as if to shield its eyes. Tyrion raised Sunfang. ‘I do not bargain with daemons,’ he said. ‘I kill them.’
Then, with a yell, he launched himself towards Caradryan’s slayer.
The Emperor awoke in darkness, his face sticky with blood and his body a mass of aches and pains. Forgot what that was like, he thought sourly, as he pushed himself to his feet. The air was heavy, and a slaughterhouse stink was thick in his nostrils.
He looked around warily, hands flexing. He’d lost his runefang somewhere between here and Ka’Bandha’s hammer, and he scanned his surroundings for something to take its place. He peered into the darkness, marking the body of a Chaos warrior nearby. The man’s sword was to hand. Though he was loath to touch it, beggars couldn’t be choosers. As he started forward, he took note of the corpses hanging from the ceiling on heavy chains and hooks.
With a start, he realised he was under the great dome of the temple. For a brief heartbeat, rage pulsed through him to see this most holy of shrines defiled so, but he regained control of himself quickly. ‘Work first, mourn later,’ he muttered.
‘Same old Sigmar.’
The voice slithered out of the dark. The Emperor froze, and then turned, following the echoes of laughter. He saw a throne of skulls and flayed skin rising above a dais of bones, and at its base, a familiar gleam of bronze. ‘Ha,’ he murmured. No cleansing flame, no sunlit morning, had ever seemed as beautiful as the sight of his hammer, gleaming in the dark. He stepped towards it, hand reaching out, but stopped as the laughter echoed again.
‘Yesssss, it is you. I knew it from the first. I smelt your stink on the wind the moment that fool elf freed you from the Vortex, Unberogen. For two thousand years, this world was free of you, but here you are, hiding in a dead man’s skin.’
Sigmar looked up as the alabaster-skinned figure climbed atop the back of the throne and spread great black wings. Eyes like polished opals shone as the horned head twisted about. ‘It has been a long time, my old friend,’ the daemon prince murmured. ‘Centuries since last we spoke, eh, Sigmar?’
‘Gerreon,’ Sigmar said. He felt the old hate welling up again, like a wound that had never properly healed. A woman’s face passed before his eyes, and receded into memory. This thing before him had been his friend, once upon a time. Now, it was a plaything of Chaos.
‘Azazel,’ the daemon prince corrected, gently. ‘Alas, no time to catch up, I’m afraid. No time to speak of better days, of loves lost and won. Time is speeding up, and the world judders to pieces in haste. I thought… well. One last moment, before the end.’ Azazel pointed at the fallen shape of Ghal Maraz, where it lay amidst the refuse of barbarity. ‘You want that filthy thing, cousin? Then come and take it, if you dare.’
Sigmar lunged for the hammer. Azazel gave a wild shriek of laughter and flung himself towards his prey, drawing a blade covered in ruinous sigils as he did so. The blade slammed down, inches from Sigmar’s head. The Emperor rolled aside. Azazel rose, wings stretching out. He stood between Sigmar and his weapon, and spread his arms as if in invitation. ‘A good effort, but not good enough. Not for this,’ Azazel said. He took a step towards Sigmar. ‘I wish that we had more time, my friend. I have been waiting so long to see you again.’
‘Can’t say the same, I’m afraid,’ Sigmar said.
Azazel laughed. ‘Oh, how I have missed you,’ he said. Then with a single snap of his wings, he hurtled forwards. His blade hissed as it whipped towards Sigmar’s neck. Sigmar twisted aside and flung himself towards his hammer. Even as he caught the haft, he heard the boom of Azazel’s wings. He rolled onto his back, and just managed to block the daemon prince’s blade with the haft of Ghal Maraz. For a moment, Azazel crouched above him. The blade writhed like a thing alive in his clawed grip. ‘Do you ever think of her, brother of my heart?’ Azazel purred, as he forced the blade down. ‘Do you recall her scent in lonely moments, or the way the light caught her hair? Do the memories press down on your heart, when you recall Ravenna? Do you spare even a thought for dear Pendrag?’ Azazel chuckled. ‘I know I don’t.’
‘I think about them always, Gerreon. As I have thought about this moment,’ Sigmar said, from between gritted teeth. He felt stronger than before, as if some part of him which had been missing up until now had returned. It wasn’t simply the presence of Ghal Maraz, but something else – as if a weight had been lifted from him. He heard the clash of steel in his head, and the song of distant stars. He pushed back against Azazel. The daemon prince’s eyes widened.
‘What are you–?’ Azazel began. Sigmar shoved the haft of the hammer up, and Azazel screeched as the edge of his own blade gashed his chest and throat. He tumbled backwards, wings flailing. His blood hissed as it burned the flagstones. Sigmar swept his hammer out, and inhuman bone splintered as the force of the blow tore the daemon prince’s sword from his grip. The sword wailed like a wounded cat as it was sent skidding across the floor.
Sigmar kicked him in the head as he tried to rise. The daemon prince yowled as the Emperor trod on his wings, pinning him in place. Sigmar raised Ghal Maraz over his head. ‘You said it yourself, Gerreon. There is no time. And so I send you back to the forge of souls more quickly than you deserve.’
‘No!’ Azazel shrieked. His eyes bulged in fear as he tried to tear himself free, to no avail. The hammer came down with thunderous finality. The great wings twitched once, and then fell still. Sigmar Unberogen looked down at the rapidly dissolving ruin of a man he’d once called friend, shook himself, and strode away, towards the sound of fighting.
There was a war to be won. And a world to be saved.
NINETEEN
Wendel Volker grunted as his sword became lodged in the skull of a snarling northman, and he released it as the body slumped. He reached down and snatched up the axe of a fallen White Lion and spun it experimentally. Somehow, the axe, despite not being made for human hands, felt more natural in his hand than any sword ever had.
An axe is a warrior’s weapon, Ulric growled softly. Volker ignored the god and turned to chop a leaping Chaos hound out of the air, sending the dying beast crashing down nearby. He whirled back, and smashed aside a brass-faced shield before cleaving through the breastbone of its owner. He tore the axe free and spun, seeking more foes. He’d lost his horse in the first charge, but he’d never been comfortable with the animals. As far as Volker was concerned, being on a horse made you a target. Ulric seemed to feel the same way.
Anarchy reigned wherever Volker cast his gaze. Bellowed war cries and the clash of steel echoed across the city. All around him, men and elves were hard-pressed by the savage northmen. The latter seemed tireless, driven beyond all reason and discipline and into a red rage that ended only in death. They came again and again, hurling themselves at the dwindling ranks of the Empire and the elves, dying in droves but pulling down warriors in their death-throes. Even worse, the northmen were not alone in their assault. The clamour of battle was drawing enemies from all over the city, including beastmen and skaven.