—<TWENTY>—

The Battle of the River Reik

 

 

The army of mortals poured from the rained gates of the city, forming a great mass of flesh and blood in the land between the two forks of the river that converged within its walls. Khaled al-Muntasir saw Sigmar at the heart of this force, a figure in shining armour to match his own. A twinge of unease flickered in the vampire’s chest, as though he were watching some magnificent Nehekharan host arrayed for ritual battle instead of a pathetic, desperate horde of mortals.

Sigmar took his place at the head of maybe three hundred horsemen, each atop a powerful, armoured steed, and each bearing a mix of swords, axes and spears. As more of the Emperor’s subjects marched from Reikdorf, a shape began to form of Sigmar’s plan, and Khaled al-Muntasir laughed as his unease was replaced by relief.

Another block of cavalry formed up beside Sigmar’s, and great wedges of infantry formed up to either side of the horsemen. Some of these were disciplined and marched like they’d been given some training, but others were little better than ragged mobs. Give them a taste of blood and death and they’d run easily enough. Yet more cavalry rode onto the northern flank of the army, their armour red-painted and bedecked with suns. A handful of chariots and painted warriors took position by the southern fork of the river, and the vampire smiled as he recognised Freya’s barely-armoured form.

“Some mortals just never learn,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Siggurd.

“They think they can win,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “Even after all that’s happened, they still think they can win. Hope has undone them. Hope has sent them out here to die ingloriously instead of accepting the inevitable and prospering.”

“Sigmar will always think he can win,” said Markus. “Until the blade cleaves his heart, I’ll not be too sure he’s wrong.”

Khaled al-Muntasir looked over at his creation and frowned. “You think that pathetic force can best ours?” He looked out over Sigmar’s army, trying to estimate how many warriors the Emperor had. “He has fifteen thousand men at best. We outnumber him by more than two to one. He cannot possibly defeat so many.”

Markus shrugged. “I’ve heard of battles lost with better odds.”

“Impossible,” sneered Khaled al-Muntasir.

“You don’t know Sigmar,” said Siggurd, his black steed pawing the ground and snorting with impatience.

Once again, the tiny ember of unease in Khaled al-Muntasir’s chest was fanned, but he quashed it ruthlessly. More than numbers would decide this battle. The terrible fear of the dead would unman many of the Emperor’s warriors, and for every one of them that fell, another fighter would be added to the army of the dead. Though Markus and Siggurd had not yet developed their sorcerous powers, his own were formidable. But even they were a pale shadow compared to the magic of Nagash. With a word, the necromancer could command the dead to rise, the living to wither and die, and curse the skies to bring forth elemental fury.

No, his vampire counts were simply being overly cautious, yet the thought would not leave him that this last, desperate battle was in fact a ploy to lure them into a trap. His gaze swept the mortal army as it began a slow advance, skirling war horns, trumpets and drums driving the army towards the silent host of undead. Sigmar’s horsemen pulled ahead of the main battle line, riding at speed towards the centre of Nagash’s army.

Khaled al-Muntasir followed the line of Sigmar’s charge, seeing where it led with a derisive bark of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” asked Markus.

“Sigmar wants to duel,” he said in disbelief. “He thinks he can face Nagash.”

At the centre of the army of the dead, the pillar of terror and ice that was Nagash bellowed with rage. Black lightning surged from the necromancer, a furious, blitzing whirlwind of dark magic that consumed hundreds of revenants around him. A roaring scream of rage and bitter spite cracked the sky, and a cold rain began to fall as the wounded heavens wept over the lands of men.

Khaled al-Muntasir felt the terrible force of the necromancer’s rage and, moments later, realised its source. Riding ever closer to the army of the dead, Sigmar’s head was held high, and upon his brow was the glittering majesty of Nagash’s crown. It pulsed with silver light, its magic unseen by mortals, but visible as a ghostly corona of light around the Emperor’s head. Khaled al-Muntasir had taken it for some cheap mortal bauble, enchanted with some hedge wizard’s pitiful ward charms, but the dormant power coming off it in waves told another story.

“Blood of the Ancients…” hissed Khaled al-Muntasir, angered at the sight of a mere man wearing the crown crafted by the master of the dead. The incredible power bound to its unknown metals was not for some fleshy sack of blood and meat to wear, it was for the Lord of Undeath alone. Sigmar had worn the crown once before and it had almost destroyed him, but his strength of will had been enough to resist its siren song.

A terrible thought occurred to the vampire…

Had Sigmar mastered the power of the crown?

Was that what this was, a trap to lure the army of the dead to Reikdorf just to wrest it from Nagash?

“Ride out,” commanded Khaled al-Muntasir. “Ride out now!”

 

Sigmar felt the awful weight of the crown at his brow, its immense power threatening to crush his skull and invade his mind with all the terrible temptations of power it had offered him before. He had had Wolfgart’s help to resist it last time, now he was on his own. Black thoughts of vengeance, power and dominance filled his mind, but knowing them for what they were, he was able to push them away for now.

To march to war at the head of so great a host of men was a truly magnificent honour, but facing them was an army of nightmares. The greenskin horde at Black Fire had been larger, but so had his army. And this foe could return from the dead…

A great mass of shambling dead opposed him, a ragged, shuffling horde of corpses in numerous stages of decomposition. Many wore the garb of Empire warriors or peasants, and he kept his anger in check, lest it feed the black sorcery of the crown. Dark horsemen rode to each flank of the enemy army and ravening packs of dead wolves and ghoulish cannibals roamed the banks of the southern arm of the Reik. The Asoborns faced this scattered horde of teeth and claws, led by Garr’s Queen’s Eagles and Freya herself. Sigmar saw the warrior queen atop a commandeered chariot, with Sigulf acting as her rider and Fridleifr as her spear bearer. Sigmar felt a knot in his gut at the sight of those boys going into battle, but they had been blooded already and would be again if they survived this fight.

Beside Sigmar, Wolfgart stood tall in his saddle, waving towards Maedbh. Her chariot sped along beside the queen’s, with Ulrike and Cuthwin in the back, each armed with bows and many quivers of arrows blessed by the priests of Taal.

Wenyld rode next to Wolfgart, holding Sigmar’s banner aloft with an expression of disbelieving pride. The rippling battle flag with its glorious beast of legend picked out in gold, represented everything this mortal army stood for and was willing to die to defend. To carry it was the greatest honour, one that had fallen to Pendrag before his death. Though Sigmar had thought Wolfgart would want to bear the banner, he had instead preferred to carry his enormous sword. Sigmar understood, and Wolfgart’s battle captain had taken up the banner. Thinking back to how he had first encountered Wenyld, Sigmar was pleased the banner would be borne by someone he knew.

Looking left and right, Sigmar saw his countrymen, warriors of all different tribes and lands. Scattered among the battle-trained warriors were cheering masses of farmers, craftsmen and labourers, men who had never faced battle until now. As glad as Sigmar was to have them march out with him, he knew they could not be relied upon to stand when the fighting became close and bloody.

In the moments before battle, the priests of each temple had given their blessings to the army, but instead of retreating behind the walls, each took up a heavy hammer, mace or cudgel and joined the battle line. With the exception of the priests of Ulric, no holy men fought with the army of the Empire, but Sigmar was happy to have the help of whichever god chose to aid them this day.

Far to Sigmar’s left the Red Scythes rode along the line of the northern fork of the river, Leodan leading his warriors in an attempt to flank the enemy army and put their lances and heavy swords to good use. Sigmar rode at the head of one detachment of the Great Hall Guard, while Alfgeir commanded the other. Both masses of heavy horse held the centre of the army, and Sigmar’s entire strategy depended on their strength, speed and power.

Ahead of them, beyond the thousands of lurching corpses, ghostly revenants and rank upon rank of skeletal warriors, was a towering figure wreathed in black light and shimmering arcs of deathly energy. Sigmar could see Nagash clearly now, a boon from the crown no doubt, and he saw the incredible, unknowable power that seethed in his chest. Sustained by the darkest of magic, Nagash was immortal, invincible and deadly.

He felt the black gaze of the necromancer slide over him, a creeping chill that would have frozen his heart in an instant but for the power of the dwarf-forged plate that encased him. No sooner had that icy gaze felt what sat upon his brow than a hideous roar of fury shook the world and booming peals of thunder rolled across the landscape. Sheets of rain fell in cascades and brilliant traceries of lightning forked from the sky.

“Looks like you were right, old friend,” said Sigmar, thinking back to Eoforth’s last words.

Even armed with that knowledge, Sigmar knew he would only get one chance to land a killing blow. He took a deep breath, whispering a prayer to Ulric.

“Is it time?” said Wolfgart.

“It’s time,” said Sigmar. “Sound the horns.”

The order was given, and all along the Unberogen line, a rippling series of horn blasts spread from the army’s centre. Pipes and drams joined the crescendo, and even before the first echoes faded, the army of the Empire was on the move.

 

Sigmar raked back his spurs and the gelding leapt to the charge. The ground between the forks of the river was hard-packed and flat, ideal cavalry terrain, and the sound of hoof beats was like the thunder booming in the heavens above them. Hundreds of heavily armoured horsemen kicked their mounts from a canter to a charge, yelling fearsome Unberogen war cries to banish the fear that tore at every one of them.

Wolfgart drew his heavy two-handed sword from his shoulder scabbard. The weapon was unwieldy to use from the back of a horse, but Wolfgart would sooner be defenceless than go into battle without such a blade. Wenyld held the banner high, gripping onto his horse with his thighs and stirrups as he swung the spiked ball of a great morning star in looping arcs.

Sigmar picked out the dead man he would slay, an eyeless corpse with thin, wasted arms hanging limply at its sides. His steed whinnied in fear and he lifted his hammer high.

“For Ulric!” shouted Sigmar, urging his horse to greater speed. “For the Empire!”

Ghal-Maraz slammed down and broke the corpse in two as the Unberogen cavalry struck the shambling mass of the dead in a deafening crash of iron and bone. The first ranks of the dead simply disintegrated as the unstoppable mass of horsemen crushed them with the speed and weight of their charge. Hundreds were trampled and broken apart in moments, hammers and swords and axes hacking a bloody path through the undead.

Sigmar kicked a dead man in the face, caving in the bone of his skull and backhanding his hammer into the chest of another. Ribs splintered and rotten meat sprayed from the impact. Emerald-lit eyes dulled as the corpse fell, but Sigmar was riding onward before the body had even fallen. Claws tore at his horse and his legs, but his armour was impervious to the broken nails and bony fingertips of the dead. The Great Hall Guard were the very best of the Unberogen, and these wretched specimens could not hope to halt their advance.

“Keep pushing!” shouted Sigmar. “If we stop we are lost!”

Wenyld’s morning star battered the dead from his path as he sought to keep up with Sigmar, and Wolfgart’s sword clove living corpses in two with every blow. Sigmar’s horse kicked out as he drove it onwards, iron-shod hooves breaking skulls and shattering rib cages as it fought as hard as its rider.

With Sigmar at their head, the Unberogen punched through the ranks of the corpse warriors, but this had been but a taster for the battle to come. These were the chaff of the dead, and served only to slow Sigmar’s charge. The Great Hall Guard hacked, bludgeoned and sliced through the wall of corpses, punching through to the army beyond, where ranked up skeletal warriors marched towards them with spears lowered and shields locked together.

 

* * *

 

Alfgeir marvelled as his new sword cut through the necks of two dead men with flawless ease. It was half as light as he would have expected, yet it was perfectly balanced for his reach and strength. Wherever he swung the sword, it connected with the most vulnerable portion of his enemy, and he had left two score headless corpses in his wake. Its edge was keen beyond imagining and not a trace of grave dirt or blood befouled its surface.

Govannon had presented the sword to him as they gathered to hear Sigmar’s words at the Oathstone. Together with Masters Holtwine and Alaric, Govannon had handed him the blade, hilt first, and apologised for the lack of a case.

Alfgeir had been speechless, overcome with gratitude that the smith had actually managed to fulfil his promise and finish the blade before the first fall of snow.

“If I live through this battle, I will commission a sword case from Master Holtwine,” he’d said.

“It will be my finest work,” Holtwine had said.

It was a sword of heroes, a blade that never failed to find its mark and clove to the very heart of its victim. Beyond the works of the dwarfs, no man had wielded a finer weapon. Too fine a blade to belong to one man alone; this would be the blade of the Marshal of the Reik for evermore.

Alfgeir fought with the skill and strength of a man half his age or less, showing the younger warriors how to fight like a true Unberogen. His two hundred knights fought just as hard, seeking to earn his favour with their faith and fury. While Sigmar’s cavalry punched through the centre of the undead towards the necromancer, Alfgeir’s riders angled their course towards the dead marching along the northern fork of the river.

Behind Alfgeir, Orvin and his son, Teon, fought the dead with crushing blows from their heavy broadswords.

Orvin was a man quick to anger, with a temper that had made him few friends in peacetime, but which served him well in battle. His son wore an old bronze helmet with a white, horsehair plume. It was dented on one side from a blow struck more than forty years ago, and Alfgeir remembered the boy’s grandfather wearing the helm. The dent had come from the axe blow that had panned in his skull. Alfgeir hoped the grandson would have better luck with it.

Orvin carried the white gold banner Sigmar had presented to Alfgeir upon his coronation as Emperor, and though no words had ever been spoken to make it so, it had become a kind of unofficial talisman for the Great Hall Guard. His warriors fought all the harder when it flew above them, so Alfgeir was happy for them to count it as their own.

Alfgeir chopped the arms from a corpse seeking to drag him from his saddle and pushed his mount through the press of crushing bodies. The banner flew proudly above the knights, a beacon of light for his warriors to rally around. Though fear of this foe threatened to overcome every one of them, none would falter while the white and gold banner flew. Wolfskin cloaks streamed at their backs as they broke through the shambling dead and came face to face with rank after rank of the warriors formed from bone and iron.

“Onwards!” cried Alfgeir, urging his steed onwards. “For Sigmar and the Empire!”

 

Another wolf howled as it was crushed beneath the iron-rimmed wheels of Maedbh’s chariot. Its remains rotted in an instant, and Ulrike loosed an arrow through the jaws of another beast as it leapt towards them. Beside her, Cuthwin loosed with calm precision, each shaft slicing home into the body of a wolf.

“Keen eyes!” shouted Maedbh, proud to have her daughter as her spear bearer and glad to have a warrior as cool-tempered as Cuthwin next to her.

After the terror of their first battles together, Maedbh had made peace with Ulrike riding to war. Wolfgart appeared to have done likewise, though she knew neither of them would ever lose their fear of her going beyond their protection. They knew the dangers that lurked everywhere in the world, but with this invasion of the dead there were few mortals who did not. She wished she could have fought this foe alongside her husband, but the back of a chariot was no place for someone unschooled in such a demanding form of warfare.

A dozen chariots, all that had survived the battle at the river, followed Queen Freya as she led the charge towards the rabid packs of death wolves and their disgusting companions. Now fitted with spinning iron blades at their hubs, the Asoborn chariots had already torn through scores of the undead wolves, slicing them and their ghoulish brethren apart. The Queen’s Eagles and hundreds of Asoborn warriors, their skin painted in the manner of the ancient queens and their hair stiffened with resin, followed in the wake of the chariots.

Maedbh hauled on the reins, sweeping her chariot in a sharp turn as a pack of pallid-skinned flesheaters ran towards her. They ran with loping, bandy-legged strides, hissing as they clawed at her chariot. Ulrike put an arrow through the nearest creature’s eye, and Cuthwin put another through the throat of the one behind it. Maedbh swept up her spear and slashed it around in a wide arc, opening the top of one of the hideous cannibals’ skulls.

Freya loosed an ululating Asoborn war shout and climbed onto the upper lip of her chariot’s armoured frame with her ancient broadsword unsheathed. Maedbh’s heart swelled with pride to see her queen fight, a fiery goddess of war sent from the violent times before the Empire, when none dared to travel in Asoborn lands for fear of the warrior women said to dwell there with sharp knives and cruel hearts. Sigulf steered the chariot with great skill, and Fridleifr killed wolf and cannibal with graceful sweeps and thrusts of his spear.

“Mother!” shouted Ulrike.

Maedbh saw the flesheater too late and felt its claws slash down her back in lines of fire. She cried out in pain as it vaulted into the chariot. Keeping one hand on the reins, Maedbh slammed her elbow into its fanged jaw. Ulrike hammered her knife up and under its ribs. It squealed horribly as it died, and Cuthwin kicked it from the back of the chariot.

“Are you hurt?” asked Ulrike.

Maedbh couldn’t answer. Already she could feel filth from the creature’s claws entering her body and bit the inside of her mouth bloody against the pain. Her flesh burned where she had been cut and her side was sticky with fresh blood, but Maedbh was Asoborn and this pain was nothing to one who had given birth.

“I’m fine,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she snapped, harsher than she meant to. “Watch our backs…”

Ulrike nodded, and Maedbh turned back to the fighting ahead of them.

They had cut deep into the swirling mass of wolves and flesheaters, and the hideous monsters fought all around them as the Asoborn infantry caught up with the slowed chariots. To anyone but an Asoborn there was no easily discernable shape to this battle, just a confused mass of circling chariots and intertwined warriors on foot, but Maedbh knew better. She saw how close they were to being overrun. Freya should command them to withdraw, reform and charge again, but Maedbh knew the queen would never give that order.

Maedbh looked over at Freya’s chariot, so proud to be a servant of this magnificent woman and glad the gods had granted her this last chance to fight alongside her. She turned her chariot around, cutting the throat of a wolf with her wheel blades and looked to see where the queen was heading.

Maedbh saw the danger before Sigulf. Years spent anticipating threats to a chariot had given her a preternatural sense for when to charge and when to evade. She saw the enormous wolf, twice as large as its brethren, as the exposed muscles on its powerful back legs bunched and hurled it through the air.

“My queen!” she screamed, but it was too late.

The giant wolf’s forepaws smashed through the chariot’s armour as though it was dead wood. Freya flew through the air as the chariot flipped onto its side, dragging the horses down with screams of pain as their legs shattered. The queen landed hard, cracking her skull against a rock, and lay still. Sigulf vanished amid the wreckage, but Maedbh saw Fridleifr thrown clear, the boy rolling as he hit the ground and coming to his feet like a tumbler.

“Asoborns!” ordered Maedbh. “To the queen!”

The flesheaters surrounded the fallen queen as Maedbh whipped the reins and drove her horses on. Arrows flew from Ulrike and Cuthwin’s bows as hurled javelins skewered yet more wolves and eaters of the dead. Hundreds more pressed in, scenting easy meat and knowing on some primal level that they had the chance to earn their master’s favour with this prey.

 

Leodan’s warriors wheeled expertly around the advancing blocks of Unberogen infantry, feeling the ground grow soft beneath their horses’ feet. This close to the river, the ground was already muddy, but the cold rain was in danger of turning it into a quagmire. The Red Scythes were the elite cavalry of the Taleuten kings, and though they owed fealty to the Emperor, it felt wrong riding into battle without Count Krugar in their midst.

The mass of dead opposing them was a limping, shuffling horde of corpses, unworthy of a blade, and without skill. Yet the sheer number of them, their hunger and their mindless aggression, could drag even the noblest warrior to his doom. Leodan tried to keep that in mind as he rode towards them with his lance lowered.

He kicked his spurs back, driving his horse to charging speed, and his riders followed suit, charging in a disciplined line. To maintain cohesion in such terrain and weather was nothing short of miraculous, but the Taleutens had been masters of mounted warfare since before their earliest ancestors had been driven across the eastern mountains.

“Strike fast and ride them down!” he shouted, lowering his lance and aiming it towards the chest of a dead man with a jawbone sagging on one rotten sinew. It was a waste to use lances on such dregs, but it wasn’t as though they could sling them for later use.

The Red Scythes slammed into the corpses with a wet slap of hard wood on bloated meat. Leodan’s lance punched his target into the air, ripping open its chest and splintering apart with the impact. His steed slammed through the press of bodies behind the dead man, trampling them to pulp beneath its weight. In a matter of seconds, Leodan was ten deep in the mass of enemy warriors. He dropped the broken lance and unsheathed his curved cavalry sabre, slashing it through the throat of a dead man clawing at his horse’s face.

He slashed left and right as the dead pressed in, cutting off heads and lopping off rotten limbs held on by little more than glutinous tendons and scraps of gristly cartilage. His blade hewed dead flesh with ease, and his horse crashed bones with every kick. His warriors were unstoppable, riding through the mass of undead as though they were nothing more than a fleshy annoyance. The blood thundered in his ears as he destroyed these vile corpses. To ride into battle like this was to be a god, to tower over the enemy and slay them with impunity.

Leodan could imagine nothing worse than fighting on foot.

“Ulric damn you all!” whooped Leodan as the mass of corpses thinned and he knew they had broken through. This was the golden dream of every cavalryman, to break through the line before wheeling around to smash into the flanks and rear of the enemy army. He hauled on the reins and punched the air twice. Sheets of rain and the bleak darkness hid what lay beyond, but Leodan had no intention of continuing eastwards.

“Clarion! Reform and wheel right!”

A trilling trumpet blast sounded behind him and he caught a glimpse of the red banner of his troop as the rider carrying it rode alongside him. No one man ever had the singular honour of being the Red Scythes’ banner bearer; it was passed between his warriors with every fight. Today it was borne by Yestyva, a man with a deadly lance and powerful sword arm.

The Red Scythes formed up with Leodan at their centre, and he snarled to see the inviting flanks of the ranked-up warriors of bone. They would roll up this line and tear the unlife from this host. To think that they had feared these creatures was ridiculous; they fell more easily than any mortal man.

Leodan kicked his spurs back and held his sabre aloft and urged his warriors onwards. The rain shifted and he heard a faint clatter of bone and jangle of trace. The trumpet blew again and his warriors went from a trot to a canter, steadily building speed as they rode to glory.

He heard the rattle of bone and iron again, louder this time. The darkness and rain lifted for the briefest moment as an arcing bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. In that moment of brightness, Leodan saw his worst nightmare.

Hundreds of skeletal horsemen, heavily armoured in shirts of black mail, black breastplates and heavy caparisons of iron. The horses were fleshless, skeletal and quite dead. Green light burned in their eyes and their chamfrons were fitted with long, barbed spikes. Each of the riders leaned low across the necks of their horses, a long black lance aimed for the hearts of the Red Scythes. Too late, Leodan saw he’d been lured into this easy attack.

Their shields were long and kite-shaped, emblazoned with skulls and images of ancient kings, their banner a ragged, torn scrap of leathery flesh with a leering jaw spread wide. They came on in a thunder, lances lowering with hideous precision.

“Ware cavalry!” shouted Leodan, though he knew it was too late.

The black knights smashed into the Red Scythes, lances tearing through their armour and into their flesh. Men were hoisted from their saddles, screaming as the frozen iron of the enemy lances impaled them. Though seemingly fragile, the black steeds were as powerful as any mortal horse and punched into the centre of the Taleuten horsemen.

Leodan swayed aside as a lance speared past him, slashing his sword into the face of the black knight who bore it. His sword smashed the helmet from the dead warrior’s skull, and sent him spinning from his horse. He wheeled as the two groups of horsemen became hopelessly entwined, a throbbing mass of warriors hacking one another from their saddles.

He plunged his sword through the neck of a dead man’s horse, taking grim satisfaction as it fell apart beneath him. Leodan spun in his saddle as the clamour of battle thundered in his ears and the sky split apart with yet more lightning. Rainwater streaked his face and all he could see were flashing blades, grinning skulls beneath iron visors and blood spraying from mortal wounds. The bloody banner of the Red Scythes still flew proudly and he spurred his mount towards its glorious colours.

Before he could reach it, a thundering juggernaut of red iron and black-edged death smashed into his horse and hurled him from the saddle. He landed badly, slamming into the ground with a crack of breaking bone and the breath driven from his lungs by the fall.

Dizzy with the impact, Leodan knew at least one of his ribs was broken. He tried to stand, but pain shot up his leg and he crumpled onto one knee as the splintered ends of his shinbone ground together. Gritting his teeth, Leodan looked up and saw the enemy that had unhorsed him.

A monstrous, hulking warrior in blood-red armour towered over him, its frost-limned armour burning with a glaring rune of an ancient, bloody god. Its horned helm covered a grinning skull face with burning fire in its dead eyes.

A dread battle cry roared from the warrior, a chant and a mantra from the beginning of time, but no less potent for the vast span this champion had been dead.

Blood for the Blood God!

“Ulric save us…” wept Leodan.

 

* * *

 

The Great Hall Guard smashed into the ranks of skeletal warriors and tore through their front ranks in a hammering thunder of beating iron. Alfgeir’s sword sliced down through a bronze pot helmet and into the skull beneath. He wrenched the blade free and beheaded another two skeletal warriors, their armour no protection against his rune-forged weapon.

Orvin fought at his side, hacking down the dead with furious blows of his heavy broadsword. The man screamed as he slew, using his fear and turning it to anger. Teon fought at his side, his own sword arm rising and falling like a blacksmith at the anvil. The youngster had not the ferocity of his father, but he had speed and skill beyond anything Orvin could muster.

A spear jabbed at Alfgeir. He twisted in the saddle to cut the point from the shaft, following through with a lancing blow that split the dead warrior’s ribcage apart. Like the shambling corpses, these dead were no match for Alfgeir, but where those first foes had little ability in battle, these dead had been warriors in life and fought with remembered skill. Swords flashed, spears thrust and the enemy plucked men from their mounts with every passing moment.

The momentum they had won from their charge was quickly spent, and every yard would now be paid for in blood. Alfgeir bellowed the name of Ulric as he fought, driving his aged body to heights of aggression and fury he had never known. The dead surrounded them, a mass of grinning faces, leering jaws and eyes filled with green balefire. Their rusted swords cut and slashed, bringing down horses and men with their unearthly magic.

He heard a wild horn blast, seeing Sigmar over to his right. The Emperor’s band of horsemen crushed a path through the ranks of skeletal swordsmen. Wolfgart rode at Sigmar’s side, cleaving a path with his enormous two-hander, and Alfgeir wished he could have ridden with the Emperor.

“On, damn you!” shouted Alfgeir as thunder boomed overhead and the rain beat down with ever greater force. “The Emperor rides on and we should be with him!”

Orvin and Teon pushed next to him, fighting to clear a path through which they could match the Emperor’s charge. The noise of the storm overhead sounded like a great battle was being waged in the heavens, echoing the conflict being played out in the mortal realms below. For all Alfgeir knew, that might well be the case. Perhaps they were all merely pawns of the gods, cursed to fight their wars on the face of the world while the gods were embroiled in their own nightmarish battle for survival.

“We’re with you!” shouted Orvin, and Alfgeir nodded as more and more of the Great Hall Guard pushed through the mass of slashing blades, rallying for another push into the ranks of the dead. If they could recover their momentum, they could still reach Sigmar.

Orvin cried out as a black sword plunged into his stomach, a plate-clad champion of the dead driving it through his body with a powerful two-handed grip. Orvin toppled from his horse and Alfgeir cried out as the banner fell with him. He swept his sword down through the enemy warrior’s blade. It shattered and the weaponless champion turned its dead eyes upon him. Alfgeir froze as he saw death in those eyes. Not the prospect of death, but the exact moment his life would end. His sword arm fell to his side and his lungs failed to draw a breath. A shooting pain spiked into his left arm and he cried out as the sword fell from his grip.

The champion swept up a fallen spear and lunged towards him.

Another blade intercepted it, and Teon lanced his blade through the champion’s visor. The skull broke open and the hellish green light was extinguished from its eyes. Alfgeir’s breath returned with a whooshing roar in his ears, bright spots of light bursting before his eyes.

“Father!” shouted Teon, leaping from his horse and holding his father’s head.

Alfgeir tried to shout at him to get back on his horse, but his throat was tight and his chest afire. The fighting swept around them, and the youngster wept as the muscles in his father’s face went slack and Morr claimed his soul. Alfgeir felt their chance to counterattack slipping away, and shuddered as a deathly chill crept over him.

He had felt something similar when…

“I think you dropped this, Alfgeir,” said a voice that cut through the clash of swords and spears. “It’s very nice work. Careless of you to have lost it.”

Alfgeir turned his horse to see himself facing a warrior in midnight black plate, with a white, bloodless face and eyes red with blood-hunger. Count Markus turned Alfgeir’s sword in his hand, admiring the silver runes etched along the length of the blade.

“Yes,” said Markus. “I think I may keep this weapon after I kill you with it.”