—<TWENTY-TWO>—

The Doom of Men

 

 

Myrsa cried out as the silver-armoured swordsman plunged his blade into Pendrag’s side. Blood sprayed from the wound as the Count of Middenheim fell, the broken sword still clutched in the hands of his killer. The sky seemed to darken, and Myrsa felt the passing of something precious from the world.

The tableau before him seemed static and unmoving: Otwin with his axe poised to cleave into Gerreon’s neck, and Marius with his curved blade thrusting for his unprotected back. Pendrag lay at their feet, but it was the look of loathing and regret etched into Gerreon’s face that expressed the greatest sadness.

“Pendrag!” shouted Myrsa, and time caught up with the dreadful moment. Gerreon sidestepped Marius’ thrust and bent over backwards to avoid Otwin’s axe, which came perilously close to taking the head of the Jutone count. The swordsman threw aside the instrument of Pendrag’s death as though it were red-hot, and spun away from the clumsy attacks of his enemies.

His remaining sword hung limply at his side, and Myrsa was amazed to see that he was weeping, as though suffering the greatest pain imaginable. The fighting at the wall still raged around him, and though he never once took his eyes from Pendrag’s body, he blocked and parried with magnificent precision.

“You are mine, swordsman,” howled Myrsa, and that howl was taken up by hundreds of throats at his back. Such was the force and fury behind the cries that the surging fury of the battle eased as warriors fighting for their lives turned to seek out their source: the warriors of Middenheim.

They were grim-eyed men who lived harsh lives in the north, not given to open displays of emotion or grief, yet they came with tears in their eyes for their fallen count. The blue and white banner of the city came with them, and Myrsa had never been prouder to call this city his home.

Gerreon saw Myrsa and the warriors of Middenheim coming for him, and shook his head. He threw aside his sword and vaulted back over the wall.

“No!” cried Myrsa, leaping to the blood-slick parapet. Thousands of enemy warriors still pressed up the viaduct, but Myrsa easily spotted the silver figure of the swordsman among the baying tribesmen, a lone figure pushing against the tide of attackers.

“The coward flees!” cried Myrsa, furious to be denied his vengeance.

“Warrior Eternal!” shouted a voice beside him, and Myrsa saw Count Marius of the Jutones pointing to the parapet beside him. Myrsa looked down and saw a dead warrior slumped against the wall. Myrsa stared at the man in confusion, wondering what had attracted the Jutone count’s eye.

Then he saw it.

The fallen man’s weapon: a crossbow.

Myrsa dropped his hammer and lifted the heavy weapon of iron and wood. He was no expert with a crossbow, but had trained with every weapon devised by the race of man. He slotted a bolt into the groove and pulled the wooden stock hard into his shoulder.

He sighted down the length of the crossbow, seeing Gerreon’s fleeing form in the small square of iron that served as an aiming sight. Shooting downhill at a moving target was not easy, but just as Myrsa was about to loose, Gerreon stopped moving and turned to face him.

The swordsman stood motionless, his arms outstretched, and his mouth moved as he said something that was lost in the din of battle. Though Myrsa was too far away to hear his words, he knew exactly what Gerreon had said: I’m sorry.

“You will be, you bastard,” hissed Myrsa. “You will be.”

He squeezed the release, and watched as the iron bolt flew from the crossbow, arcing over the heads of the Norsii towards Gerreon’s heart. Myrsa lowered the weapon, knowing the shot was true, and his eyes locked with Gerreon’s in the split second before the bolt slammed home.

But it was not to be.

A chance gust of wind or the will of the gods, who could know? Either way, the bolt wavered in flight as its fletching unravelled. Instead of skewering Gerreon’s heart, the lethal bolt slammed into his shoulder. The swordsman reeled under the impact, but with a final dejected look of disappointment, he turned and fled down the viaduct, beyond the reach of even the greatest marksman.

Myrsa cursed and tossed aside the crossbow. He ran to where Marius and Otwin had carried Pendrag’s blood-soaked body. Surrounded by a ring of White Wolves, Pendrag lay cradled in the Berserker King’s arms. Incredibly, he still lived, though blood still pumped over Otwin’s hand despite the fistful of rags held tight to the wound. The fast-spreading pool beneath Pendrag told Myrsa everything he needed to know.

He knelt beside his ruler and friend as Pendrag’s eyes flickered open.

“Did… you… kill him?” gasped Pendrag, his lips flecked with bloody froth.

Myrsa struggled to speak, his grief threatening to overcome him. For the briefest instant, Myrsa considered lying, telling Pendrag that he had been avenged, but the moment passed. He was a warrior of honour, and Pendrag deserved the truth.

“No, my lord,” he said. “I wounded him, but he escaped.”

“Good,” whispered Pendrag.

Myrsa struggled to understand Pendrag’s meaning, but simply nodded as Marius knelt at his side. He carried the runefang and held the handle out to Pendrag.

“Your sword, my brother,” said Marius, and Myrsa was astonished to see tears in the man’s eyes. “Take it one last time and bear it with you into the Halls of Ulric.”

Pendrag’s hand closed around the leather-wound grip of the incredible sword, his fingers smearing blood over the golden pommel. A mask of peace soothed the lines of pain on his face, and he smiled, as though hearing words of comfort, just holding the blade strengthened Pendrag, and he looked up at Myrsa with eyes that were clear and determined.

“Warrior Eternal,” said Pendrag, and Myrsa leaned in close.

“My lord? You have a valediction?”

“I do,” said Pendrag, lifting the runefang towards him. “The sword is yours now.”

“No,” said Myrsa, shaking his head in denial. “I am not worthy to bear it.”

“Funny…” said Pendrag. “I said the same thing. But you must listen to me. This is the runefang of Middenheim, and before these witnesses, I name you Count of Middenheim. The sword needs you, and you must take it!”

Myrsa swallowed, and looked over at Marius and Otwin, seeking some sign as to what he should do.

Marius nodded and Otwin said, “Go on, lad. Take it.”

“Heed what it tells you, my friend,” said Pendrag softly, his voice fading.

“I will, my lord,” said Myrsa, taking hold of the runefang, his hand wrapped around Pendrag’s as they held the blade together. Ancient craft and skill were woven into the blade’s making, and with it came wisdom beyond the ken of mortals.

Pendrag sighed, and his hand slipped from the sword. Tears spilled down Myrsa’s face, and the White Wolves howled with grief. Their sorrow lifted to the skies, calling the Wolves of Ulric to carry the spirit of this great warrior to his final rest.

Myrsa lifted the gleaming blade.

“I know what I have to do,” he said.

 

Standing at the edge of the forest far below, Kar Odacen watched the dark halo around the city on the rock, and knew that its final moments were at hand. He felt every life the daemon lord of Kharnath took, and the pleasure it gained from such wanton killing coursed like the finest elixir through his flesh. It had taken every scrap of his power to summon so mighty a champion of the Blood God, and he had been forced to bind his life-force to it to seal the pact.

Such a bargain was dangerous, but the vitality that flowed from the daemon lord’s killing was worth any risk. His mind was clouded with blood, his sight red with the baleful energies of the powerful daemon. The Blood God had no love for sorcery, and Kar Odacen struggled to hold on to his powers in the face of so mighty a slaughter. The present was a blur of blood, and the future a swirling chaos of possibility, so he focused on the past to hold onto his sense of self.

He smiled as he remembered the dawning comprehension on Cormac’s face before he fell into the lake of blood that preceded the manifestation of the daemonic creature. Too late, he had realised how he had been manipulated and groomed to become the perfect vessel for the destroyer of men. To think that he had thought that a mere mortal would be the instrument of the Dark Gods’ will! The thought was laughable.

Kar Odacen watched the distant struggle on the viaduct, hearing only the faintest sounds of battle. If the men of the empire knew the ultimate fate of the world, they would take their blades to their own throats. The End Times were upon this age, yet it was the doom of men that they could not see the hangman’s noose around their necks.

A trickle of bloody saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and he blinked as he became aware of movement around him. He forced his eyes open, seeing the forest beasts with their heads lifted, sniffing the air and gathering in huddled, fearful packs. Kar Odacen felt the urge to kill them all threaten to overwhelm him. The rage of Kharnath was upon him, and only with an effort of will was he able to suppress it.

A pack of beasts with the heads of snarling bears and wolves clustered close to him, pawing the ground and clawing the air. Their fear spread to their twisted kin around the Fauschlag Rock with every bray. Kar Odacen rounded on the nearest creature, a towering brute with dark, reptilian scales and the head of an enormous horned bull.

“What is going on?” he demanded, his mouth thick with the iron taste of blood.

The creature didn’t answer, and Kar Odacen tried to draw on his powers to destroy it, but the weight of the daemon lord’s presence was too great, and he could summon no trace of his sorcery. The huge beast shook its shaggy head and spat a mouthful of bloody cud before turning and vanishing into the trees. Its pack followed it, and all around the towering spire of rock, others were doing likewise.

“Where are you going?” raged Kar Odacen, but the beasts ignored him.

“They are going home,” said a voice choked with self-loathing behind him.

Kar Odacen turned, and his anger fled as he saw Azazel standing before him. An iron bolt jutted from his pauldron, and his silver armour was streaked with blood.

“What in the name of all the Dark Gods are you doing here?” shouted Kar Odacen. “You should be atop the city! You carry the walls of Middenheim and bathe in the Flame of Ulric! I have seen it!”

“Maybe one day,” said Azazel, turning and walking away, “but it will not be today.”

 

Darkness gathered over the temple, the daemon’s outline a deeper blackness against the gathering shadows. Its axe howled with monstrous hunger and its whip wound itself around its arm, the skulls laughing with lunatic glee. Sigmar scrambled away from the colossal monster, knowing he had only moments to live.

The daemon hissed, its breath that of a charnel house, hot and reeking of unnumbered headless corpses. The brass and crimson of its armour was matted with blood, and its black fur stank of burned meat. It stepped towards him like a hunter stalking wounded prey, enjoying the last, futile moments of defiance before stepping in for the kill.

Its eyes fastened on Sigmar, and in that brief moment, he saw the man within the monster, a soul torn apart and used as a gateway for a creature of madness and death to pass between worlds. Somewhere deep in this daemon, Cormac Bloodaxe relished his body’s destruction for the glory of bringing forth a mighty avatar of the Dark Gods.

Sigmar’s hand closed on the haft of Ghal Maraz, and the shadows lifted as his warhammer blazed with light. He climbed to his feet, and the daemon roared, as though pleased it had found worthy meat at last. Its axe swung for him, and Sigmar rose to meet it.

Hammer and axe clashed in coruscating arcs of crimson, two weapons forged by masters of their art. A thunderous Shockwave exploded outwards, smashing the last columns and archways of the temple to ruins. The Flame of Ulric danced like a candle in a hurricane, but it remained true in the face of powers that sought to extinguish its light.

The cold fire flared brighter than ever, and Sigmar knew that Ulric was with him.

“I am ready for you,” said Sigmar, and the daemon raised its axe in salute.

Man and daemon faced one another in the ruins of the temple, the blood-tinted sky like sunset on the last day of the world.

Sigmar charged the daemon, its mighty form vast and terrible, its dreadful axe a weapon to unmake all life. He ducked beneath a killing sweep and smashed Ghal Maraz against the daemon’s flank. Brass armour parted beneath the force of the blow, and more of the daemon’s black blood sprayed. Where it had melted iron blades and stone, Ghal Maraz was proof against it, and the daemon roared in anger.

Its axe chopped down and Sigmar threw himself to one side. The blade clove the air, but with a dark shimmer, it reversed itself upon the haft and slammed into Sigmar’s chest.

All the malice and rage that had gone into the creation of the daemon’s axe was in that blow, and it smashed Sigmar’s armour asunder. Runes of protection flared white-hot as they were destroyed by the raw, elemental power of the Blood God, and Sigmar felt the heat burning his skin, forever branding him with the script of the dwarf runesmiths. He felt ribs break and blood burst from his mouth as he was slammed into the fallen ruins of the temple. He fell to the ground beside the Flame of Ulric, still clutching Ghal Maraz tightly as his armour fell from his body in blackened pieces. He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as the daemon raised its axe to destroy him.

The sound of wolves echoed through the temple, and the winter wind howled around them. Particles of snow and chips of ice billowed from the fire at the heart of the temple, and Sigmar’s chest heaved in pain as the air around him froze. The daemon’s form hissed as ice and fire met.

Sigmar knew with utter certainty that this was the breath of Ulric himself.

Just as surely as he knew it was not for him.

He heard a warrior’s shout, a cry of loss and rage, courage and devotion, and a silver sword blade burst from the daemon’s stomach. Cold fire bathed the blade, its runic surface drawing the breath of Ulric to it in a blinding whirl of ice and snow.

The daemon roared, its essence fighting to prevent its flesh from unravelling in the face of this new power. Sigmar dragged himself to his feet to see the daemon transfixed by a warrior in pristine white armour who drove a dead man’s sword up into its unnatural flesh.

White light surrounded the warrior, and Sigmar saw it was Myrsa, the Warrior Eternal of Middenheim. The breath of Ulric was not for Sigmar, but for the hero who had pledged his life to the city’s defence. The sword with which Myrsa had impaled the daemon was no longer a weapon forged by mortal hands, but a blinding spike of ice, a shard of the Wolf God’s power brought to earth to slay the avatar of its enemies.

Even as Sigmar rejoiced at the sight of Myrsa, his heart despaired. There could be only one reason why Myrsa wielded the runefang.

Moment by moment, the daemon’s form wavered and flickered, its will and power to endure a match for the energies that sought to destroy it. This was Sigmar’s one chance, and he knew what he had to do. He held Ghal Maraz in the Flame of Ulric, letting the cold fire bathe the head of the mighty warhammer in the power of his god.

Sigmar pulled his hammer from the flames, its entire length rippling with white fire, and ran towards the daemon. He leapt from fallen stone to fallen stone until he was level with the daemon’s chest, and hurled himself towards its horned head.

Its eyes blazed, but no daemon-born fury could prevent Sigmar from striking.

Ghal Maraz thundered into the daemon’s chest and its darkness exploded into shards of night. Fell powers screamed, and the sky was rent asunder as the daemon lord’s body was torn back to the damned realm from whence it had come. Winter storms raged around the fallen temple, and Sigmar was swept up in the tearing, slicing whirlwind of ice and frozen air. His flesh burned with the bitterest cold, but the touch was not unwelcome, its icy bite familiar and divine.

He slammed into the ground, and the breath was driven from his body as the Flame of Ulric surged with life and power. Its fire spread over the ground as though an invisible coating of oil covered every surface. The rocks ran with blue flame and the bodies of the dead leapt with it.

The whole world was afire, and it swept out into the city of Middenheim.

 

* * *

 

Like a storm-blown tide, the Flame of Ulric spread through the city, a blazing, seething river of blue fire that echoed with the howls of wolves and frozen winds. It did not burn, yet it roared with the hunger of a mortal blaze, and nothing it touched would ever be the same. A towering pillar of winter fire lifted from the heart of the city, spearing the furthest reaches of the sky and spreading its cold light across the land as far as the eye could see.

The warriors of Middenheim howled as the power of their god touched them, and their eyes shone with the light of winter. Their blades were death, and the Norsii saw the defeat of the dread lord of Kharnath in the cold, merciless eyes of their foes.

At each man’s side, whether Middenlander or not, a shimmering wolf of blue fire snapped and bit at the Norsii, tearing open throats, and clawing flesh from bones with ghostly paws. No blade could cut them, no armour could defy them, and the phantom wolves tore into the Norsii with all the power of their master.

Terror overcame the Norsii, and they scattered before the tide of fiery wolves and winter warriors. The viaduct became a place of certain death, with the wolves of the north and the men of the city hacking down their fleeing foes without mercy.

Amid the howls of wolves and the screaming winds, there came another sound, a sound the defenders of Middenheim had almost despaired of hearing.

Great horns, blowing wildly from a host of men.

 

They came from the forests: the swords of ten thousand men from all across the empire.

From the east came the Asoborns, the Cherusens and the Taleutens. A thousand chariots led by Queen Freya smashed into the Norsii, swiftly followed by the Red Scythes of Count Krugar. Howling packs of Cherusen Wildmen fell upon the scattered beasts and men, their painted bodies glowing in the fire atop the Fauschlag Rock.

From the south came the Endals, the Brigundians and the Menogoths, warriors who had marched day and night to reach their Emperor and fight at his side.

The Raven Helms of the Endals rode down the Norsii fleeing from the viaduct. Count Aldred cutting a path through the northern tribesmen with arcing blows from Ulfshard. Princess Marika rode a midnight horse at his side, loosing arrows from a gracefully curved longbow.

Merogen spearmen drove Norsii horsemen onto the blades of the Menogoths and the Brigundians, and Markus and Siggurd relished the chance to lay waste to their enemies from afar. Ostagoth blademasters cut down Norsii champions with sword blows that were as deadly as they were elegant, while Count Adelhard’s kingly blade laid waste to any who dared come near.

Within the hour, the Fauschlag Rock was surrounded by warriors of the empire, and the Norsii were doomed. By nightfall, the Flame of Ulric had retreated to the ruined temple, the winter winds and ghostly wolves returning once more to the realm of the gods.

Only two souls escaped the empire’s vengeance: a weeping swordsman in silver armour and a screaming madman whose eyes ran with blood.

They fled into the shadows of the forest, where the beasts were waiting for them.

 

Sigmar met his counts at the head of the viaduct.

Krugar and Aloysis stood together, brothers once more now that they had seen what might be lost should their friendship falter. Freya was as magnificent as ever, her golden armour streaked with Norsii blood and her fiery hair unbound. Count Aldred and Princess Marika, resplendent in gleaming black armour, smiled warmly as he approached.

The southern counts, Siggurd, Markus and Henroth, bowed grandly as he approached, their faces haggard from the long march, yet elated to have arrived in time. Adelhard of the Ostagoths swept Ostvarath in a dazzling flourish, ending by sheathing his ancient blade and bowing to Sigmar.

Conn Carsten, though not yet appointed a count of the empire, had earned the right to stand with such heroes, and his normally sour expression was banished in favour of a thin smile at this great victory. Behind them, the pipes of the Endals and Udose entwined in triumphant harmony.

Bloodied and weary, yet no less magnificent, Otwin and Marius held each other upright. They made for unlikely brothers-in-arms, but they had fought and bled at each other’s sides and shared great heroism and hardship.

Only one count was missing, and Sigmar’s heart ached with his loss.

Alaric, Wolfgart, Redwane and the new Count of Middenheim stood over the body of Pendrag, his fallen sword-brother and oldest friend. All three were hurting, but none would let this moment pass without their presence. Myrsa’s face was impassive, but Wolfgart and Redwane wept openly. Even Alaric, a warrior of a race for whom the lives of men were but a brief moment in time, had shed tears for Pendrag.

Sigmar’s sword-brother was wrapped in blue and white, for the warriors of Middenheim had fashioned his shroud from the banner of their city, and Sigmar could think of no more appropriate a gesture. Myrsa now bore the runefang, but to honour Pendrag’s passing, he laid the mighty blade upon his fallen lord’s chest.

Though Sigmar’s body was on the verge of collapse, he held himself tall before his counts. To do any less would dishonour the men who had fought and died to win this day.

He tried to think of words that would convey how grateful he was, how blessed with such fine friends he was, but the words would not come. Sigmar stood amid his counts and wept for all they had lost this day, for friends who would never laugh with them again, and for brothers, fathers and sons who would never return to their families.

Count Siggurd stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I did not know if you would come,” said Sigmar at last.

“You called for us and we came,” said Siggurd. “We will always come.”