—<TWENTY-ONE>—

The Last Day

Pendrag’s sword was a shimmering blur of silver as it clove through a screaming Norseman’s chest. No armour was proof against its edge, and no warrior brought low by its power would live. In the heart of the battle, the Count of Middenheim fought alongside his people; their leader, their hero and their friend.

Count Otwin hacked men down by the dozen with his mighty axe, his muscled form bleeding from a score of wounds, and his face a mask of crimson where his crown of blood pierced his temple. The King’s Blades screamed as they slew, paint running from their bodies in streams of sweat and blood.

Resplendent in their orange tunics, the Jutones battled with lance and sword, fighting with a precision lacking in their Thuringian brothers. Marius, though still in great pain from Bastiaan’s traitorous attack, stood with his fellow counts, cutting through flesh and armour with elegant sweeps of his eastern cavalry sabre.

Conn Carsten and his clan-kin fought at the viaduct also, all three leaders of men having been drawn to fight together on this last day. Pendrag had welcomed them, understanding on some unknown level that this was where they needed to be. Alaric and the dwarfs were assembled on the wide esplanade, the Grimloks, the Skrundoks, the Gnollengroms and the Grimargul veterans. Front and centre were the Hammerers from King Kurgan’s personal guard, and Alaric stood among them, a great runic axe held at his shoulder.

The Norsii attacked with greater ferocity than ever, their war cries more brutal, more hideously animalistic than the howls of the wildest rabid beast. The viaduct was all that mattered now, and the enemy had abandoned their attempts to carry the walls elsewhere. From the edges of the forest, the beasts howled as the men of the north alone fought to break into Middenheim.

A warrior in armour of burnished blue plate leapt for Pendrag’s unprotected back, but Myrsa’s hammer intercepted him in mid-air. The Warrior Eternal smashed the tribesman aside, sending him tumbling to his death. The two masters of Middenheim fought side by side like brothers, slaying their foes and protecting one another with deadly grace.

White Wolves howled as they killed, the fury of Ulric upon them as they fought to protect the city that shared their name. With their wild hair and brilliant red armour dazzling in the sunlight, they were as fearsome a sight as the Norsii, feral and magnificent.

Pendrag blocked the sweeping blow of an enormous axe and stepped in to hammer his fist at the snarling tribesman. Blood and teeth burst from the warrior’s face, though this only seemed to amuse him. The axe came at Pendrag again, and he ducked, bringing his sword up in a whistling arc that sliced his foe from groin to shoulder. The runefang was a weapon beyond compare, its edge sharper than the dawn and lighter than a dream. With its awesome power at his command, Pendrag’s wounds and aches were forgotten as he fought with the strength and speed of a man half his age.

How long they had fought for, Pendrag did not know, but they were holding their foes at bay. The Norsii were pushing hard, throwing their all into the fight, but the resolve of the defenders was like iron. Jutones, Udose, Thuringians, Middenlanders, Unberogen and dwarfs fought as one, an unbreakable line of courage that no wild charges of the Norsii could break.

Dreams of triumph filled Pendrag’s head, but, like all dreams, they could not last.

As the attackers fell back once more, a monstrous darkness filled the sky, and Pendrag dropped to his knees as blinding pain flared throughout his body. The skin at his neck blackened where the dead king’s blade had struck, and blood poured over his silver hand, as though the fingers had been cut from him but moments ago. The runefang tumbled from his grip and he screamed as his body curled into itself in terror. Through tear-blurred vision, Pendrag saw men who only moments before had been fighting like heroes of legend, fleeing from a monstrous shadow that filled the sky with its terrible bulk.

It moved too fast to see, its blood-matted hide reeking of death and ancient rage: enormous wings of darkness, brass and iron, the smell of charred flesh and wet fur.

Blood burst from Pendrag’s mouth and nose. He vomited over the cobbles.

The shadow flew over the viaduct, the doom of his race made real, and Pendrag wept as its deathly power washed over him. He scrabbled for his fallen weapon, and no sooner had his fingers closed on the runefang’s hilt than the suffocating fear fled his mind. His blade crackled with power, and he felt its ancestral hatred of the enveloping shadow.

The Norsii screamed a name, a vile, filthy sound that clawed at the air like fingernails on slate, but it had no power over Pendrag, for he bore a weapon of ancient times. No matter that it had been newly forged, this was a weapon that had always existed. Sometimes as a sword, sometimes a flint spear or bronze-bladed axe, but through all the ages of the world, this weapon and its as yet unmade brothers had always been here to fight the corrupting power of the Dark Gods.

Pendrag stood tall amid the helpless defenders of the viaduct, and the runefang blazed with the purest light, a brightness to conquer the blackest night and banish the deepest of shadows. He thrust the sword to the sky and smote the darkness with its blade. Sunlight broke through as the terrible shadow flew towards the centre of the city, and the warriors of the empire clambered to their feet as the power of the runefang gave them strength.

The Norsii charged, and Pendrag’s eyes were drawn to the warrior leading them.

He wore form-fitting silver armour that shone wondrously in the light, and flowing black hair spilled gloriously around his shoulders. The warrior bore twin swords of dazzling brightness and, as he skilfully rolled each blade in his grip, Pendrag was struck by the familiarity of the move. Sigmar had claimed Ravenna’s murderer was among the Norsii, but until now, Pendrag had thought that impossible. Clean shaven and pristine, he was monstrously out of place amongst the Norsii, and Pendrag’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the image of his old friend Trinovantes in the warrior’s face.

“Gerreon,” he whispered.

Though fifty yards or more separated them, Gerreon seemed to hear him, and a smile of breathtaking beauty slid across his face as he angled his course to meet Pendrag.

Of the hundred men who stood with Sigmar, fully a third dropped dead from terror at the sight of the abomination that landed in their midst. Others fled in terror, leaving only a staunch few able to overcome their fear. Like the darkest desires of men and beasts knitted together in a nightmare, it was a creature of darkness dragged into the light by dreams of blood.

It stood four times the height of a man on back-jointed legs, its body vast and muscled. Sheathed in bronze and iron, its flesh was the brutal colour of charred corpses, and the stink of the grave was pressed into its wiry fur. The blunt wedge of its horned head was filled with serrated fangs, and its eyes were like holes pierced in the flank of a volcano.

Enormous wings of smoking darkness spread out behind it, and flagstones shattered as its enormous weight landed. It clutched a bronze axe in one meaty fist and a writhing whip like a cat-o'-nine-tails in the other. The ends of the barbed whip’s lashes ended in wailing skulls that dripped blood from their empty eye sockets.

“Daemon,” said Sigmar, and the colossal beast roared, baring its fangs and shaking the foundations of the temple. Blocks of stone crashed to the ground, and every pane of glass in the city shattered.

“Ulric save us,” said Redwane, his face bleached of colour. As if in response to his words, the Flame of Ulric flared angrily at this violation of sacred space.

“I warned you that you would regret your wish to fight a daemon,” said Sigmar.

“I thought we’d done that in the swamps around Marburg?”

“That was no daemon,” said Sigmar. 'This is a daemon.”

“How do we fight such a thing?” asked Wolfgart, his sword held out before him in trembling hands.

Sigmar lifted Ghal Maraz to his shoulder.

“With courage and heart, my friends,” he said. “It is all we have.”

The vast daemon took a thunderous step towards them, its cloven hoof shattering each stone and blackening it with corruption. Sigmar’s blood raged around his body, the daemon’s presence filling him with anger and the lust to destroy. This was the power of the Dark Gods, and the acrid, bilious taste of it filled his mouth.

Perhaps thirty men still stood with Sigmar, the bravest of the brave, but against so mighty and powerful a foe, there would be few survivors. The daemon’s wings flared black, and it was amongst them. Half a dozen men died instantly, hacked down with a single blow of the daemon’s axe. Another three were sliced in two by a crack of its whip. Blood sprayed the air and hissed as the daemon drank it in through its furnace hot skin.

It moved like a nightmarish phantom, its bulk shifting and indistinct, as though the mind refused to fasten on its diabolical form for fear of being driven to madness. Sigmar threw himself to the side as the daemon’s whip cracked with a thunderous peal, and the stone flags of the temple were torn up like a ploughed field.

Sigmar rolled to his feet as the daemon flickered, and its blazing, black bulk towered over him. The axe slashed down, and he leapt back, the monstrous blade smashing into the ground with the force of a comet. The impact hurled Sigmar back, and more stones came crashing down from the unfinished temple walls. A huge lintel slammed into the flagstones next to him, and he spat rock dust.

Rippling light spilled between his fingers, and Sigmar felt the aeons-long enmity of these two powers, one designed to heal and build, the other to corrupt and destroy. He hauled himself upright over the broken stones of the temple.

The daemon was coming for him.

Broken glass and stone crunched underfoot as the daemon threw back its head and roared, the sound echoing through the city and scraping down every warrior’s spine with its primal power. Its hellish bulk seemed to fill the temple, an unholy darkness in a place of sacred power.

A score of men fought to surround the daemon, spears thrusting desperately at its armoured form. Its whip slashed out and they died, their bodies bursting apart in wet rains of blood that were drunk by the creature’s axe. Blades shattered on its hide, and a dozen more were slain before the daemon’s blade.

Sigmar climbed onto a huge block of stone as Wolfgart rushed at the monster’s unprotected flank. His sword-brother’s enormous blade slashed the iron-hard flesh of its back-jointed legs, drawing a froth of steaming black ichor from the wound. Wolfgart’s sword dissolved in an instant, and where the daemon’s blood splashed the flagstones, they were burned to a reeking ooze. A casual flick of the daemon’s wrist sent Wolfgart flying. His sword-brother slammed into the stone walls of the temple and did not get up.

“Here I am, daemon!” Sigmar yelled. “Fight me!”

The daemon heard him and swung its shaggy, horned head towards him. Death lived in its eyes, death and an eternity of suffering and pain. Sigmar’s spirit quailed before such awesome destructiveness, but he heard a freezing wind howl in his mind, and winter ice filled his veins in answer to the fires of this daemonic foe.

Redwane leapt in to swing his hammer at the daemon’s knee. The White Wolf howled as the iron head of his weapon exploded against the daemon’s armour, and Redwane fell back as razored fragments tore at his exposed face. The daemon’s fist lashed out, catching Redwane on the shoulder and sending him spinning through the air with a horrific crack of shattering bone.

With a howl of all the wolves of Ulric, Sigmar sprinted over the tumbled stones of the temple and hurled himself through the air towards the daemon. Ghal Maraz spun in his grip as he brought it around in a devastating overhead sweep. The ancient dwarf-forged star metal arced towards the centre of the daemon’s face, and Sigmar knew that this would be the blow to end this vile creature’s existence forever.

The daemon’s fang-filled mouth opened wide, and its whip flicked up, its many lashes coiling around Sigmar like the grasping arms of the monstrous kraken that seafarers claimed haunted the ocean’s depths.

They tightened on him like barbed coils of wire and his armour buckled beneath its enormous strength. Sigmar screamed in pain as bony thorns pierced his flesh in a dozen places.

The world spun around him: ground, sky, walls, cold-burning fire.

Sigmar slammed against the floor of the temple with bone-crushing force. Ghal Maraz spun away from him, coming to rest before the Flame of Ulric. The lashes of the whip slithered away like guilty snakes, leaving bloody trails behind them. He heard screams of pain and fear, and rolled onto his back, every nerve in his body shrieking with agony. His arm was useless, and he scrambled backwards on his haunches towards his warhammer.

Black shadows gathered over the temple of Ulric, and the daemon’s black outline loomed over him.

The Norsii smashed into the defenders at the viaduct, and within seconds it was clear that the wall could not hold. Enraged by the same darkness that had so terrified the men of the empire, the howling tribesmen killed with savage ferocity and madness, each fighting as though to outdo their fellow warriors.

Swords and axes clashed in desperate battle and scores of men died in the opening moments. The defenders fought for their lives, while the Norsii fought for the chance that their ancient gods might notice their bravery.

Pendrag sliced the runefang through the neck of an armoured warrior, his heavy plates of iron no protection against Alaric’s masterful blade. Another blow cut through the helmet of a warrior with golden skin and an oversized axe. His sword moved like quicksilver, cutting and stabbing without pause. He saw Gerreon ahead of him, and the swordsman caught his eye and smiled with feral anticipation of their duel.

The empire line was bowing back from the walls, and for all that Pendrag’s men were fighting with renewed courage and determination, he saw that it wasn’t going to be enough. The hammers of Myrsa and the White Wolves smashed down time and again, and the Norsii died in droves before this incredible fighting force. The Warrior Eternal was sublime, and the White Wolves fought alongside him as faithfully as blooded bondsmen.

Udose clansmen fought to the battle tunes of their ancestors, the skirling wail of their pipes defying their enemies to silence them. No force but death would dislodge them. The Jutone line had broken in places, and though Marius and his fiercest lancers were helping stem the tide, it was only a matter of time until the Norsii gained a foothold from which they could not be dislodged.

Pendrag moved through the Norsii as though they were no more than clumsy children, leaving his White Wolves behind as he killed without mercy or a second thought. Next to his graceful sweeps and deadly lunges, the Norsii were lumbering buffoons, slow-witted and without skill.

A burst of shimmering silver flashed beside him, and he brought the runefang around in a sweeping block as a glittering blade slashed towards him. He spun around, his sword held out before him, but his battle-fury faltered in the face of this magnificent foe.

“How about you try that pretty little sword against a real opponent,” said Gerreon.

Pendrag tried to reply, but words failed him at the changes wrought upon the man he had once called brother. Gerreon’s skin was white, like the finest porcelain, and his hair was darker than the deepest starless night. The sounds of battle faded until all Pendrag could see was the perfect, enrapturing figure before him.

It was the eyes that held him, so full of innocence, yet brimming with cruelty and utterly without pity. Pendrag was enthralled by Gerreon’s eyes, appalled by beauty that should have aroused, but instead evoked nothing in his soul but revulsion.

Gerreon’s sword slashed for his throat, but the runefang swept up and parried the blow without conscious command. No sooner had their swords touched than the spell holding Pendrag transfixed was broken. The frantic clash of iron and screaming swelled like a tide around him.

“I’ll gladly cut you down, Gerreon,” snarled Pendrag, thrusting the runefang towards the swordsman. His attack was easily batted aside, and Gerreon laughed with musical amusement as he bounded lightly from foot to foot.

“My name is Azazel,” said the swordsman. “Gerreon is dead.”

“Gerreon, Azazel,” replied Pendrag with an angry snarl, “whatever damned name you go by, I’ll still kill you.”

Pendrag attacked again, and Gerreon swayed aside, parried another stroke and launched a dazzling riposte. Pendrag flinched as Gerreon’s sword sliced the braids from his beard.

“I do so love your pathetic confidence,” smiled Gerreon, spinning his swords in a terrifying display of skill. “It’s so much sweeter to kill someone who thinks they have a chance.”

“Try your best,” challenged Pendrag.

“Gladly,” said Gerreon, attacking in a furious ballet of blades. Pendrag blocked desperately as Gerreon’s swords nicked the skin of his neck, cheeks and forehead.

“Fight like a man!” he roared, blocking another slicing blow. The runefang blazed in his grip, its power surging as it empowered him to fight this dread foe. Pendrag drew on every reserve of courage in his heart, and the runefang steeled his will to resist the dark allure of the swordsman’s beauty.

Never in Pendrag’s life had he fought with such skill, power and speed.

Instantly he knew that it was nowhere near enough to defeat Gerreon.

“You cannot win, Pendrag,” hissed Gerreon, rolling his right blade around the runefang and slicing another braid from Pendrag’s beard. “You must see that I am far more skilful.”

“Skilful, aye,” said Pendrag, backing away along the fighting step, “but I have something you don’t.”

“Oh,” chuckled Gerreon. “And what’s that?”

“Friends,” said Pendrag.

He relished the look of confusion on Gerreon’s face as Otwin’s axe swept down and crashed into the swordsman’s back. Gerreon was driven to his knees by the force of the blow, his reflective armour intact, yet cracked from neck to abdomen. A graceful sword-thrust struck Gerreon in the chest as Count Marius leapt into the fight.

The swordsman fell against the parapet, his face more angry than fearful. Any normal warrior would have been cowed, but Gerreon’s face was alight at the prospect of so many opponents.

“All for me?” he mocked. “Truly I am blessed to be able to kill you all.”

The Berserker King roared in red fury, his axe sweeping out to take Gerreon’s head as Pendrag lunged. The swordsman moved like a cat, dodging Otwin’s axe, and blocking Pendrag’s attack with an almost contemptuous flick of one of his swords. Marius’ cavalry sabre was not intended for duelling, but he wielded its shimmering blade like a veteran fencer. Blood seeped from the knife wound in his side, but only a tightness around the eyes gave any hint of the pain he felt.

The three of them came at Gerreon together, understanding that to face him singly would be to die. Otwin fought with maniacal fury, Marius with calculated precision, and Pendrag attacked with a skill borne of betrayal. Their axes and swords slashed and stabbed at Gerreon, but his twin blades were a blur as he blocked, parried and counterattacked.

He taunted them as he fought, tossing his mane of hair, and flashing them his most winning smiles. Pendrag saw past the trap of Gerreon’s wondrous countenance, and it seemed his fellow counts were also immune to his charms. Otwin was too deep in his berserker rage to be ensnared by petty adornments such as physical perfection, and Marius cared only for gold. Neither man craved solace in beauty, and Gerreon’s temptations were wasted.

Marius cried out as Gerreon’s sword slid past his guard and sliced through his armour, the swordsman’s blow seeking out his wounded side. The Jutone count dropped to one knee as Gerreon spun low to stab his other sword into Otwin’s thigh. Before Gerreon could twist his weapon free, Otwin thundered his fist against Gerreon’s shoulder. The swordsman staggered, but did not release his grip.

The Berserker King reached down and took hold of the blade. Gerreon twisted his grip, and blood sprayed from the Berserker King’s hand. Otwin roared in anger, his muscles swelled, and he snapped Gerreon’s sword-blade with his bare hand. Otwin fell back with a foot of iron embedded in his leg. Gerreon was left with the broken stump of a sword, and his face twisted in petulant anger.

Pendrag saw his chance, and thrust the runefang at Gerreon’s exposed chest.

The swordsman twisted aside, and Pendrag’s blade sliced across the mirrored surface of his breastplate before sliding clear. Gerreon threw himself at Pendrag, pulling him close as though for a brotherly embrace.

“Too slow,” hissed Gerreon, and rammed what was left of his broken sword under Pendrag’s arm. It punched through Pendrag’s mail shirt and ripped into his heart. Blood burst from Pendrag’s mouth, and he heard someone cry his name. The runefang fell from his hand, and the world spun in fire as he dropped to the parapet.

Cold stone slammed into his face, and his chest was bathed in warm wetness. The sounds of battle seemed distant and tinny now, as though coming from some faraway place. It seemed he could hear the sound of distant howling, drawing ever closer.

He was cold, so very cold, and he could hear wolves.

They were calling to him.