—<TWENTY>—

The Last Days

 

 

The city did not fall.

On the eastern flank, the Udose were torn apart by the twin assaults from the beasts and their transformed comrades. Horrified warriors fled into the city, leaving the eastern approaches to the city wide open.

The west fared little better, with the enraptured Jutones walking blindly towards non-existent treasures and illusory visions of their deepest desires. Most were torn apart by the beasts, but many more fell to their deaths as they chased phantoms of riches, women and lost loved ones over the edge of the cliff.

Sigmar’s forces at the viaduct and Pendrag’s warriors to the north were cut off from one another as beasts and fires raged through the heart of the city. As Middenheim burned, its people prayed to Ulric and their prayers were answered as a frozen wind blew from the north, preventing the fires from spreading and saving their city from destruction.

The flames were doused, but hungry beasts tore into the city’s inhabitants, killing and feeding in an orgy of slaughter. Blood ran in rivers through the streets of Middenheim, but its people were hardy northerners, and were not about to go down without a fight. Just as it seemed the city was doomed, aid came from two unlikely sources.

The warriors that Sigmar had deemed too young or too old to stand on the front lines rose to the defence of their city, and an aged veteran named Magnus Anders rallied the warriors of the eastern districts to him. Already in his fiftieth year at the time of Black Fire Pass, the veteran Anders led his warriors in a series of brilliantly orchestrated guerrilla attacks that blunted the charge of the beasts, and led them into blind alleys where they could be butchered. Civilians and refugees followed his example and fell upon the beasts with axes, cleavers, clubs and pitchforks, driving the last of them into killing grounds of archers who had fallen back in the wake of the slaughter of Conn Carsten’s men.

As the Jutone defence of the west was broken, rampaging packs of beasts flooded into the mercantile quarter of the city. The streets here were narrow, and the squat stone buildings bore the hallmarks of dwarf craftsmen. As the monsters surged into the city, the doors of these buildings burst open, and armoured wedges of stocky warriors in gleaming plates of burnished gromril smashed into the forest beasts.

The Ironbreakers of Karaz-a-Karak cut a bloody path through the monsters, hammers and axes hewing warped flesh with grim, merciless skill. Alaric the Mad fought with an axe that shimmered with golden light, and his warriors were like a dam of iron before the tide of monsters. Blinking in the sunlight, Wolfgart fought at Alaric’s side, bloody and filthy, but unbroken and elated to be alive.

The beasts broke upon the iron fortitude of the dwarf line again and again, until Alaric deemed the time was right and a double horn blast sounded the advance. The dwarfs marched through the streets of Middenheim, each separate host of warriors linking and forming an unstoppable wall of iron and blades. Roars of hunger and triumph turned to howls of fear as the beasts fell back before the inhuman killing power of the dwarfs.

The beasts were pushed back to the western edge of Middenheim and driven from the cliffs without mercy. Here, Wolfgart found Marius of the Jutones among the fallen, still gripping his curved cavalry sabre. His rich tunic was soaked with blood, and though Wolfgart feared the worst, the stubborn Count of Jutonsryk still clung to life.

At last, the sun sank below the horizon, and night fell. The first day of battle was over, and the city had not fallen.

 

Night brought a much-needed respite from the battle, for both sides had exhausted themselves in the furious struggle. Warriors rested, having spent the day fighting, but Sigmar, Pendrag and Myrsa made a circuit of the defences, taking time to praise each sword band’s courage and assure them of victory. It was draining work, and the strain was telling by the time Sigmar gathered his counts in the Hall of Winter.

The mighty longhouse at the heart of Middenheim had once been Artur’s great hall, but now it belonged to Pendrag. It had been a cold place of isolation and power, but Pendrag had transformed it into a place where all men were equal and free to speak their minds.

A great fire burned in the hearth and the walls were hung with the pelts of legendary wolves that had hunted the Forest of Shadows. This was a place of warriors, and Sigmar had summoned his friends and allies to him as they faced a second day’s fighting. Normally, vast platters of roasted boar and flagons of northern ale would fuel such a gathering, but with no end in sight for the siege, the leaders of the empire ate sparingly, though they drank as fulsomely as ever.

Alaric’s warriors had brought several casks of dwarf ale with them, for no force of Grungni’s chosen went into battle without the taste of beer in his beard.

A single day had passed, yet Sigmar felt as weary as he had after a year of fighting at the siege of Jutonsryk. His limbs ached and his head thumped with the same dull pain that had been his constant companion since his destruction of the Norsii’s bloody altar. He was bone tired, but proud of all that his warriors had achieved.

Though Sigmar was the Emperor, Pendrag sat at the head of the longhouse, as was only right and proper in his own city. Myrsa stood behind the count of Middenheim, and Alaric sat at Pendrag’s side, contentedly smoking a long ashwood pipe. The two warriors spoke with real pleasure at this unexpected meeting of old friends. Wolfgart and Redwane sat on the steps before Pendrag’s throne, resting their elbows on a flagon of ale from which they regularly refilled their tankards.

Count Otwin sat by the fire, his body thick with bandages and his chained axe resting next to him. Similarly swathed, Count Marius lay on a padded couch next to the Thuringian count. His skin was an unhealthy grey, but he was lucky to be alive. Though Marius had been deeply wounded, the blade had not pierced his vital organs. The bewitched youth who stabbed him had been torn apart by the beasts, which was just as well, for Marius would have been sure to wreak a terrible vengeance.

Conn Carsten sat staring into the fire, lost in thought, and Sigmar’s heart went out to the bluff clansman. In the face of disaster, Carsten had rallied enough of his warriors to fight his way clear of the beasts’ attack, and return to the fight alongside the aged warriors of Magnus Anders, but that did not change the fact that clansmen had run from a fight. The honour of the Udose had been slighted, and shame burned in every man’s heart.

The atmosphere in the hall was subdued, for the day’s fighting had been hard, and the morrow promised to be harder still. Sigmar lifted his tankard of dwarf ale from the table and stood before Pendrag, bowing to the master of the hall before turning to face those gathered around him.

“Ulric bless you, my friends,” he said. “This has been a day of blood that will never be forgotten. Our foes pressed us hard, but we are still rulers of Middenheim.”

“Aye, but for how long?” asked Conn Carsten. “I lost two hundred men today. We won’t survive another attack like that.”

“We can and we will,” promised Sigmar. “I swear this to you now. The first day of any siege is always the hardest. It is when enemies test one another and gain the measure of their foe. The attacker hopes to sweep the defenders away in one mighty storm, and those within hope to break the will of the besiegers with the strength of their resistance. Tomorrow will be hard, but it will be easier than today.”

“You can’t know that,” said Carsten. “Pretty words might fool some men, but I have seen my share of battles and I know that’s just hot air. You know as well as I do that another attack like today will break us!”

Sigmar moved around the fire to stand before Conn Carsten, and the clansman got to his feet, as though expecting the emperor to attack him. He probably does, thought Sigmar, recognising the bellicose quality common to Udose tribesmen.

“It will not,” said Sigmar, “and I will tell you why. We only need hold the Norsii here until our sword-brothers reach us. Cormac Bloodaxe has made a mistake coming to Middenheim, for even now armies are closing on him, and he knows he must finish us before they arrive. He surprised us with his skill before, but now he has no time for subtlety and must throw everything he has at the city.”

“I’m no defeatist,” said Wolfgart, taking a long draught of ale, “but it strikes me that might be enough. We lost close to a thousand fighting men today, and the same again are too badly hurt to fight tomorrow. Like I said, we can hold the viaduct, but Middenheim’s a big place.”

“Aye, it is,” agreed Sigmar, circling the fire and meeting the gaze of every one of his friends, “and we will defend every inch of it.”

“How?” demanded Conn Carsten. “Where will you get the warriors to man the wall?”

“Pull what strength you have in the tunnels back to the surface, manling,” said Alaric from the end of the hall. “My Ironbreakers will hold the secret ways into the city. We know them better than any of you.”

“You see?” said Sigmar. “At every turn we are blessed by the gods. Fire took hold of the city and the people prayed for salvation. The wind and rain of Ulric answered those prayers and the city was saved.”

“It rains every day in the north,” said Marius from his padded couch. “That is hardly a miracle, for the climate here is quite revolting. Must be bad for the lungs.”

“If you don’t like the weather in the north, just wait an hour and it’ll change,” said Myrsa.

Sigmar smiled, pleased to hear a note of levity from his commanders.

“When it looked as though we would be overrun, the people drove back the invaders, and our allies from the mountains drove the beasts from the city,” he said. “The gods help those who help themselves, and Alaric brings some of the greatest fighters from his hold to fight alongside us. How many warriors make up your throng, Alaric?”

“Five hundred stout fighters from honourable clans,” said the dwarf runesmith. “Warriors from the Grimlok goldsmiths, the Skrundok runesmiths of Morgrim, the Gnollengroms and the Grimargul veterans. But best of all, I bring Hammerers from King Kurgan’s personal guard and a hundred Ironbreakers to defend the tunnels.”

“A hundred?” asked Carsten. “We had five times that number in the tunnels and they very nearly couldn’t hold back the vermin-beasts!”

“Aye, and for every battle you have fought, manling, they have fought a dozen more. They’ve been fighting grobi and trolls and worse in the dark for longer than any of you have been alive.”

Alaric leaned forward, blowing a puff of aromatic smoke from his pipe, and saying, “I warn you not to insult their honour by doubting their courage, manling.”

“Conn Carsten meant no disrespect, Alaric,” said Sigmar.

“No,” agreed Carsten, hurriedly. “None at all. I apologise, runesmith.”

Alaric nodded and stepped down towards the fire as a dwarf in burnished armour of gold and silver marched from the edge of the hall bearing a long, slender case of dark wood.

“I bring warriors, right enough,” said Alaric, “but I bring a mightier gift to aid the defence of this city.”

The dwarf runesmith took the case from the warrior, and turned to hold it out to Sigmar. Alaric’s expression was hard to read beneath his thick beard, but it looked a lot like sadness, as though he were being forced to give up his most treasured possession.

“I laboured long and hard crafting this in the greatest forge of Karaz-a-Karak,” he said. “Use it wisely, my friend.”

Sigmar undid the golden clasp securing the case, and lifted the polished lid.

Cold silver light spilled from the fur-lined interior, and the fierce beauty of the object within stole Sigmar’s breath away.

It was a sword, but what a sword it was!

Its blade shone like captured moonlight, its edge keen enough to cut the veil between worlds. Etched runes ran along its length, carved into the very heart of the blade. Sigmar had never seen a more perfectly forged weapon.

“Is this…?” whispered Sigmar as those of his friends that could stand gathered around him.

“Aye,” said Alaric. “The first of the runefangs. Take it.”

Slowly and with reverent care, Sigmar reached out and lifted the sword from its case. Its hilt was silver, the handle wrapped in the softest leather, and the pommel stone a nugget of smooth gold. In the wake of Black Fire Pass, Kurgan Ironbeard had promised him a mighty blade for each of his kings, and Sigmar had never held a sword so fine. The runefang was light, yet perfectly balanced, the work of a master craftsman at the peak of his powers.

The sense of connection he felt with the blade was incredible. It was akin to Ghal Maraz, but this was a weapon crafted for a man’s hand and forged for a spirit that endured for a fleeting moment compared to that of a dwarf.

“Does it have a name?” he asked, turning the blade and letting it capture the firelight.

“Not yet,” said Alaric. “It will earn one in battle, but that is for you to choose.”

Sigmar spun the sword, feeling the blade cut the air like the sharpest razor, and shook his head. The sword was magnificent, a work of art so awesome that it seemed an insult to its perfection for his crude human hand to even touch it.

“No,” said Sigmar, turning to face Pendrag. “This is not my sword to bear. We fight in defence of Middenheim, and its count is in need of a new weapon.”

Sigmar reversed the blade and offered the handle to Pendrag, feeling the sword’s approval of his act. Pendrag looked from the runefang to Alaric. He too shook his head.

“No, I can’t,” he said. “I am not worthy. You are the Emperor, it should be yours.”

“I already have a weapon gifted to me by the king of the mountain folk,” said Sigmar, holding the magnificent blade out. “Take it, for it is yours to bear, my friend.”

Pendrag took the runefang from Sigmar, and the light that flowed from the blade bathed him in pale luminescence, like the moon of a winter solstice. Sigmar turned to Conn Carsten, the normally sour-faced Udose war-leader smiling and full of wonder.

“Still think we are doomed?” asked Sigmar.

Conn Carsten shook his head, and said, “Not anymore.”

 

The city did not fall on the first day, and it endured for the next twelve days.

Every day, the Norsii attacked along the viaduct as beasts swarmed up the sides of the Fauschlag Rock. Unnatural storms battered the City of the White Wolf, heaving rainstorms and lightning strikes that levelled whole districts. Doomsayers cried that the gods had turned from the race of man, but as night fell on each day, the defences were rebuilt to face the next attack. After the first day’s fighting, there were no bystanders in the battle to save Middenheim. Every living soul within the city bent their efforts to resisting the siege, either as a warrior or in the infirmaries or granaries, or wherever help was needed.

As well as warlike tribesmen, Cormac Bloodaxe sent hideous beasts into battle. Vile, slime-skinned trolls attacked alongside hulking ogres with horribly disfigured limbs and skin like hardened leather. Black wolves ran with the monsters, and red-furred hounds with spiked collars leapt the wall at the head of the viaduct to bite and tear at the defenders, before being cut down by hardened dwarf fighters.

Flying beasts with wide wings swooped over the city, but the foresters of Middenland were deadly hunters, and brought dozens of the creatures down. Soon none dared fly too low for fear of a goose-feathered shaft between the ribs.

The battle beneath the city was no less fierce, with every day bringing fresh attacks up through the tunnels and rocky galleries. Conn Carsten’s fears proved as unfounded as Alaric had promised, for the Ironbreakers of Karaz-a-Karak met and defeated every attack. They fought with more than just axes and swords, for Alaric had brought three of the Guild of Engineers’ most prized weapons with him.

Called Baragdrakk in the dwarf tongue, each was a bizarre mechanical contraption that sprayed great gouts of liquid flame, and burned the vermin creatures from their lairs in the rock. The fighting in the tunnels was near continuous, and only rarely were any of the Ironbreakers seen above ground.

Sigmar had Alaric spread his remaining warriors around the city to bolster the defences where they were weakest and where the Norsii were sure to attack the hardest. With warriors from the Skrundok clan, the venerable runesmith made his way through the fighting to hammer arcane sigils into the very stones of Middenheim. He would not be drawn on the nature of these runes, but as the days passed, the lightning strikes that clawed at the city grew weaker and weaker until they ceased altogether. With the lifting of the storms, the hearts of the defenders grew lighter, and the oppressive gloom that hung over the city vanished with the brooding clouds.

Sigmar fought in a different part of the city every day, strengthening the spirits of the warriors he joined with his great heart and enormous courage. Where Sigmar raised his hammer, men and dwarfs fought harder and with greater determination than ever before.

Against Cradoc’s instructions, Count Otwin took to the field of battle, fighting alongside the King’s Blades, and his chained axe was red with blood that could never be cleaned from its edge. Marius also returned to the battle, though Sigmar was careful to position him where the fighting was less intense, for fear the Jutone count’s pride might see him killed.

Conn Carsten’s Udose fought harder than ever, their broadswords cleaving through the beasts and monsters with a fury borne from the fear of dishonour. No fiercer foe was there than a wronged clansman.

At Sigmar’s suggestion, Pendrag also fought in different parts of the city, letting his warriors see the magnificent blade crafted for him by Alaric. Fighting alongside Myrsa and the White Wolves, Pendrag became an inspirational leader of men, and all who witnessed him wield the mighty runefang in battle felt a measure of his power pass to them.

As the days passed and the city endured, hope that a grand victory might be won seeped into every man’s heart.

All that came to an end on the thirteenth day.

 

Cormac felt the blood run down his face, relishing the taste of it even as the stink of dead flesh turned his stomach. He was naked but for a loincloth, and the tanned colour of his skin was entirely obscured by the crusted blood that covered every inch of his flesh. His arm ached from sawing through meat and bone, yet he could not deny the exhilaration that filled him as he stood in the centre of the pit.

The pit was precisely eighty yards wide and eight deep, filled with severed heads to the height of a man’s waist. Every corpse that had fallen from the mountainous spire of Middenheim since battle had been joined was dragged here and decapitated. Day after day, Cormac had hacked the skulls from the fallen and hurled them into the pit. Kar Odacen had spoken of a great prince of Kharnath and such a mighty avatar of the Blood God demanded great honour.

The ground underfoot was thick with coagulated blood, and rotting flesh peeled from the skulls of men and beasts alike. Warriors and champions from every tribe surrounded the pit, each with a dagger poised at the throat of his fiercest warrior. Only the most vicious killers would serve as sacrifices, for a sacrifice was not a sacrifice if it was not valued.

Cormac had woken this day with his veins throbbing and his vision streaked with red, as though an endless gourd of blood was being slowly poured over his head. The taste of it was in his throat and a rabid fury filled his heart. He had felt a similar sensation in the tomb of Varag Skulltaker, and he had felt it when Kar Odacen bound the dark spirit to his axe.

Cormac now saw that those moments had been hollow and meaningless, pale echoes of the bloodlust that now coursed through his body. Mighty powers had turned their eyes upon this mortal world with ruinous ambition, and Cormac’s heart soared at the thought of being their mortal champion. His axe growled and hissed, the fell spirit bound within the blade also sensing that this day was special.

Today promised bloodletting like no other.

Today, he would fight alongside one of the mighty daemon lords of Kharnath.

Kar Odacen had sought him out at first light, and the moment he caught sight of Cormac his eyes widened with a mixture of fear and awed reverence.

“It is time,” said the shaman.

Word had spread through the camp, and the assault on Middenheim was forgotten as warriors, beasts and monsters were drawn to the pit to witness this great and terrible sorcery.

Alone among Cormac’s warriors, Azazel and the Hung had not come to share this glorious moment, for their master was Shornaal, the ancient god most hated by Kharnath. To be a devotee of the Dark Prince at the birth of one of the Blood God’s avatars would be suicide.

Cormac had ritually taken the skulls of eight times eight captives, holding their severed heads above his own and letting the blood drain onto his iron-hard flesh. Each baptism had sent his heart racing, and when he dropped into the pit of heads, he felt the thinness of the air, as though he could tear down the wall between this world and the void with his bare hands.

The day was silent, no sounds of life or the passage of moments, for the powers pushing into this world were the bane of all living things. Cormac could feel the pressure within his skull, like the coming of a storm. He welcomed it, for this was a storm of blood, a storm of blades and a storm of skull-taking.

He looked up at Kar Odacen, the shaman’s wizened features energised by the power being drawn to the pit. Cormac blinked as his vision blurred. The world around him began to turn red, as though his eyeballs were filling with blood. The sensation was not unwelcome. For the first time, Cormac could see the breath of the gods roaring over the earth, clouds of red howling soundlessly around him like smoke in a storm. It touched everything with rage and hatred, pride and glory. Nothing was left without its boon.

The breath of Kharnath was everywhere, in every act of violence, every act of martial pride and every act of spite. Every mortal heart was touched by it, and he laughed as he saw the top of Middenheim was just as wreathed in the breath of the Blood God as his own army.

“I feel it!” he roared, a red fury of power surging in his veins.

Kar Odacen raised his arms, and the red mists gathered around the shaman, drawn to him as he gave voice to a host of guttural, primal syllables that sundered the air with their horror and rage. Instinctively, Cormac knew that these were the first words of death, the sounds of the first murder and the echoes of Kharnath’s birth at the dawn of all things.

The shaman nodded, and the champions of the north sliced their blades across the throats of their willing victims. Blood jetted from a hundred opened throats, and the air was rent by howls, roars and cries in honour of the great god of battle and blood. But death alone was not enough, and the blades hacked through sinew and bone to sever each head.

Cormac gasped as the heads were hurled into the pit with him. Ruby droplets spattered him as they bounced and tumbled over the decaying carpet of skulls. The howling red clouds were drawn up into a towering spiral of crimson, like a bloody vortex that reached from this poor, tasteless realm to the abode of the gods.

How Cormac ached to climb to that domain of murder and hew skulls in the name of the Blood God, but this moment was not for him to transcend, but for something far older and far more terrible to tread the soil of this mortal earth.

Cormac felt it pass from its own existence to his, and threw back his head as he welcomed the avatar of Kharnath with a bellowing roar of bloody devotion. The pit began to fill with gore, as though an endless lake of blood was flooding through an invisible tear in reality. Forking traceries of light flashed in the sky and crimson bolts of lightning slammed into the pit. The blood boiled and the earth screamed as something ancient and abominable poured its essence into the world.

The pressure in Cormac’s skull intensified a thousandfold, and he screamed in agony, collapsing into the mass of severed heads that floated in the lake of blood. The jostling skulls and blood swallowed him as his flesh burned with invention.

Too late, he realised his mistake.

His role in this was not to fight alongside a lord of Kharnath.

His role was to become one.

 

Sigmar knelt before the Flame of Ulric, and knew that this was the last day.

He felt it in the icy fire that chilled his bones, and he saw that same knowledge on the face of the hundred warriors who stood with him in the midst of the half-built temple. Even Wolfgart and Redwane were on edge, sensing that this day was somehow special. Sigmar felt a dreadful pressure on the air, like the last breath before the executioner’s axe falls.

Coruscating sheets of lightning danced in a sky the colour of mourning, and streaks of red left blinding afterimages on the backs of his eyes. Sigmar’s nose was bleeding, and he saw that he wasn’t the only one. Cuts and wounds he had received during the fighting bled freely as though freshly sliced in his flesh, and he felt an aching sickness in his soul. He tasted blood and smelled a rank, foetid stench, like an overflowing cesspit in summer. It was the smell of corruption, the smell of things about to die.

“Shallya preserve us, what is that?” gasped Redwane. “Smells worse than a dead troll!”

“I thought it was you, lad,” said Wolfgart. “You White Wolves look as ragged as Cherusen Wildmen. Proper Northmen you are now.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Redwane, cupping a hand over his mouth and nose.

Sigmar knew that smell, for it had saturated the air in the Grey Vaults. It was the reek of the daemonic. Earlier that morning he had watched a mass of Norsii and beasts gathered around a wound carved in the earth, like a wide pool of blood, and felt the dread power of the Dark Gods being drawn forth.

A column of armoured Norsii warriors was already climbing the viaduct to the half-built towers at its top, but Sigmar was confident that Pendrag and Myrsa could handle whatever the tribesmen could throw at them. The runefang had completed his sword-brother, as though it were a piece of his soul that he had not even known was missing.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about today,” said Redwane, idly dabbing at a reopened cut on his neck. The White Wolf looked up at the bruised sky and shook his head. “You remember when we talked about finding a wife? When we marched to Brass Keep?”

“I remember,” said Sigmar, understanding the source of his friend’s woe. “What of it?”

“I wish I’d done something about it,” said Redwane, and Sigmar was surprised to see that the warrior was crying. “I didn’t though. I thought there would be time for that kind of thing later, but there is no later for the likes of us, is there? There’s only the here and now.”

“We make of life what we can, Redwane,” said Wolfgart. “We make the best choices we can, and we have to live with them, good or bad. I’ll wager that when this is over, you’ll find yourself a good lass.”

“You still think we can win?” Redwane asked Sigmar.

“I know we can,” promised Sigmar.

Redwane sighed, looking over the slate-grey rooftops of the buildings around them to the mighty mountain peaks in the distance that reared to the heavens.

“It doesn’t really matter in the end, does it?” asked Redwane. “I mean, look at the land we call the empire, it’s so… eternal, and we’re so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Will it matter if we all die here? Does the land care which king sits upon a throne and declares himself its master?”

“Perhaps not, but it does not change our duty to fight,” said Sigmar. “We are fighting for the land and everyone who lives under our protection. If we fail, thousands more will die, for the warriors of the Dark Gods will not stop until the whole world burns. Our enemies bring disorder and chaos with them, darkness from the blackest realm of nightmare that will consume all that is good in this world. But you are right, in the end, it does not even matter if we live or die.”

“How can it not matter?” asked Redwane.

“All that matters is that we are here, right now,” said Wolfgart, “standing against that evil.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” replied Redwane, “and since when did you become a philosopher?”

Wolfgart shrugged. “I’m not, but I know in my heart that we have to try and stop Cormac or everything we love will be destroyed: Maedbh and Ulrike. If I don’t fight, they die. I need no more reason than that to kill these bastards.”

Redwane nodded slowly.

“Then that’s good enough for me,” he said.

Though his wounds ached with the promise of pain, Sigmar smiled at Wolfgart’s words. Better than any notions of honour or glory, the love of family and the need to protect them was all any warrior needed in order to fight.

Sigmar took a breath of mountain air and tasted bitter, burning metal in the back of his throat. He looked over at the walls of the temple, seeing red smoke hissing from the runic patterns hammered into the stone. Alaric had told him these runes were proof against the sorceries of the northern shamans, but even as Sigmar watched, the stone was disintegrating as though it were no more solid than sand. Only the most dread powers could unmake the runes of the dwarfs, and Sigmar felt an icy hand grip his heart as a shadow passed over the sun and the world was plunged into gloom.

A deafening roar shook the Fauschlag Rock, the scream of a creature older than time and more terrible than any nightmare. Men fell to their knees, screaming and vomiting blood as their every sense was violated by something utterly inimical to mortality.

Sigmar tasted blood and burned meat, wet fur and hot iron.

He looked up and saw the worst thing in the world. And it was coming for him.