The end times, p.110
The End Times, page 110
Darkhand twisted inside a spear thrust, using the momentum to turn the motion into a left hook that struck the daemon on her right cheek with a satisfying crack. Valkia’s head snapped around and she turned with the blow, pivoting on the spot. The butt of her spear, Slaupnir, smashed into the captain’s helmet, launching it from his head and down into the streets below. Then she spread her wings and leapt into the air, knocking warriors of both sides into the magical fires. She hovered just outside of Darkhand’s reach and the cruel, beautiful face split in a wicked grin.
‘You fight well, dark elf,’ she said as her wings beat slowly, allowing her to maintain her untouchable position. ‘Let’s see how well you take a full assault.’ She lifted her head and rose up, disappearing into the smoke and clouds of the boiling storm.
Kruath watched as Darkhand, clearly confused by this sudden move, turned circles, Crimson Death held before him, the captain’s dark hair whipping around his sharp features. In the heat of battle, there was little time to stop and contemplate the enemy’s actions. But Valkia’s sudden withdrawal caused Kruath to pause. He looked about him, taking in the sights and sounds of the pitched battles that were keeping elves and barbarians alike occupied. He did not consider for one moment that she had fled; all accounts he had heard or read suggested that the minions of the Blood God did not retreat. He dropped low, looking over the edge of the wall in case she had dropped down below the dip of the city’s protection, but there was no sight of her.
‘Come back and fight me, witch!’ Darkhand’s voice threaded upwards through the contrails of magical fire and were echoed back down at him by a mocking, male voice that sounded not unlike the voice which had echoed in Kruath’s head. He shuddered involuntarily as it called.
Come back and fight me, witch!
The laughter grew louder and louder until moments later, Valkia plunged down through the skies, her scream increasing in pitch and volume as she descended on Kouran Darkhand, Slaupnir held before her like a bloody lance. Kruath could see the outcome in his mind’s eye and in that moment, he saw his chance. Ambition, bloodlust and the influence of the daemon twisted in his mind. It choked what hold on the present he might have had and blinded him with a glorious future. He could do what so many others had tried and failed to do.
The captain was wholly focused on Valkia, his eyes turned upward to the descending daemon. If Kruath struck quickly, he could do it. Then, when the siege was inevitably broken, he would kneel before the Witch King and claim Darkhand’s power for his own. He could do it.
Kruath stabbed another beastman that had made its way over the wall, barged a warrior aside and ducked beneath the grasping pseudopods of a shapeless thing that had reached the embrasures.
He would kill Darkhand. He would kill Valkia. He would kill everyone who stood between him and what he knew with absolute certainty was his birthright. He would be the new captain of the Black Guard and he would become a legend.
Glory. Riches. Fame. Respect. All these things beckoned him, though he heard nothing but the pounding of the blood through his veins as he prepared to kill his commander.
His moment of self-absorption did not last long. His course towards the battling pair took him past the closest sentry tower, one of hundreds that rose at intervals along the wall’s vast length. There was a resonant boom, louder than the crack of lightning and the roar of battle shook the earth. Faster than his mind could comprehend, and faster still than his reflexes could work against, the wall exploded, flattening the surrounding warriors with hunks of black stone and sending the structure plunging into the moat of fire. A great cheer went up from the horde as the wreckage formed a dusty bridge across the sorcerous flames. Then something struck the wall beneath Kruath and his world turned into a jumble of sky and flying rock.
There was no time to consider the implications of what had happened because a blood-slick, obsidian surface rushed up to meet him. Within seconds, Kruath’s ambitions were as crushed and broken as his body.
He died in terrible agony, his dream unrealised.
Darkhand heard Valkia’s shriek of fury as a great plume of dust and smoke eclipsed her prey and her dive turned into a swoop that carried her clear of the carnage. He breathed again, unaware that he had even been holding that breath. Far to the rear of the army, a line of Hellcannons belched their fiery projectiles, punishing the city’s defences. It was by no means anything to be grateful for, but it had perhaps saved him from death at Valkia’s hand. The daemon hissed her disappointment at the interruption of the duel and spread her wings, allowing a passing updraft to carry her into the sky. She held her position for a while, her wings beating powerfully and keeping her hovering. Her gaze remained locked on Darkhand for a few moments longer. Then she let out a battle cry and turned her attentions elsewhere, her interest in Darkhand lost.
Darkhand stepped back, deftly avoiding the sprawled, crushed body of a fallen warrior. He vaguely recognised the ruined face of the rider from Volroth, but dismissed the detail as trivial. Victory was all that mattered, not the dead. He wiped the blood from his eyes and looked about. Valkia was gone, the duel interrupted, and he was free to turn his attentions back to the heart of battle. He turned his head this way and that, seeking the rest of his Black Guard and assessing the situation. All he saw was dust and fire.
A huge section near the top of the wall had been blasted away and had collapsed into a fan of rubble, crushing hundreds of warriors and forming a rough ramp that bridged the moat. Warriors and crossbowmen were picking themselves up from the shattered rock and offering desultory resistance to the marauders and beasts that were already scrambling to exploit the weakness and gain the walls. He allowed himself to catch his breath and scrambled down to stand beside two other dark elves who were battling a troll. There was hope all the time the Black Guard still stood, and Kouran Darkhand would stand in a position where others could see him and recognise that hope.
‘Black Guard! To me!’
His voice was loud enough to be heard over the sounds of battle, the clashing of steel the screaming of the dying, and those who could hear him answered his rallying call as swiftly as they could. They formed a solid knot of fighters, packing themselves tightly together and delivering retribution on the Chaos army. Yet still the Hellcannons were eating away at the walls of their city. The Chaos army was unrelenting. It pounded and drove forwards, all around the great city, marauders and monsters attempting to breach the walls.
His blood fired.
‘The jewel of Naggaroth is not for these vermin,’ he roared. ‘If they want blood, then let us give it to them! Drown them in their own! For Naggarond! For Malekith!’
The rousing words ignited a fresh rush of determination in the elves and in perfect unison they inched forwards to fight back the flood of barbarians preparing to surge into the city.
A shadow overhead raised a ripple of shouting and pointing amongst the warriors battling closest. A huge manticore bearing a sorceress soared above the wall and headed for the rear of the Chaos lines. Valkia raced in her wake but other sorceresses struggling with the harpies broke from their combat temporarily to hurl arcs of power at the daemon princess. The diversion was successful, if costly, as flocks of harpies descended on the walls to hurl screaming figures over the parapets. Valkia ducked and weaved between the magical assaults and shielded her body from another. Black lightning crashed against Locephax and the former daemon prince of Slaanesh absorbed it into his twisted being. His eyes and mouth opened wide and fingers of purple fire returned to the caster, immolating her with a flash of vile energies.
It was time enough for the beast-riding sorceress to cast her own spells, and blades of shadow fell among the Hellcannons, ripping crew apart and shattering chains of binding. Several of the weapons simply vanished with thunderclaps of power, while others went mad, running amok through the barbarian hordes and crushing all in their path. A ragged cheer went up from the walls of the beleaguered city as the bombardment faltered. The sorceress turned her steed back towards the walls, its leathery wings keeping her from the reach of the howling mob below. The Hellcannons had caused minimal damage during their relentless assault, knocking a hole at the top of a single section of wall. Any breach the Chaos army had hoped to achieve with the siege weapons had failed – and now they had lost the means to further that line of attack.
Darkhand scoured the skies desperately, searching for the warrior queen, but the winged horror was nowhere to be seen. He quelled his rising sense of disappointment and focused on the defence of the walls. More barbarians were arriving all the time, but their fury, and the weight of numbers between them and the walls made it impossible for them to reach the city. Thousands of marauders streamed around the city, breaking off towards the east and west and into the Iron Mountains. In doing so, they continued their march further south in search of easier, or more immediate prey upon which to slake their thirst for blood.
Naggarond had withstood the initial onslaught and as it had done for countless years, it would continue to stand firm and proud. However, it was not going to be an easy task.
Darkhand glanced up at the huge, sinister figure of the Witch King and paused in his retelling of the siege. Malekith was a silent and taciturn audience, but he listened to everything. He sat astride the sinuous bulk of Seraphon, his ancient black dragon, and led a long column of warriors and Black Guard across the northern reaches of Naggaroth. How easily Darkhand could guess at their ultimate destination, but years of association suggested to him that it was unwise to assume the thoughts of the Witch King and more, it was utterly foolish to question him.
‘That, then, was how we broke their attempt to lay waste to Naggarond on the first day, my lord.’ Darkhand continued once the lengthy silence suggested that Malekith had nothing to say. ‘We robbed them of their momentum and deprived them of the kill, and the greater number passed us by and continued south. Had they chosen to press the attack…’
There was a creak of ancient joints and armour as the Witch King turned to regard the captain. Wisps of power smouldered from the carved sockets of his monstrous mask and curled around the knotted crown that he wore at his brow. The attention of the Witch King was like an open blast furnace turning its heat upon you and Darkhand stiffened under the sudden scrutiny. He fought with his instincts to shuffle like a recruit. Malekith crooked one finger: a barely perceptible movement that indicated Darkhand should continue. The captain swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
‘Had they chosen to press the attack, then we would have broken them still. Your warriors, my lord, are as tenacious as they are loyal. As it was, we bled them for ninety days and nights before…’
Supplies of bolts for both the crossbows and the siege weapons were all but exhausted and the ground before the city was littered with thousands of punctured corpses and the speared bodies of giants and mammoths. Still they fought on. Darkhand was weary, exhausted, bruised and battered, but still he led his men in the defence.
The twisted siege towers that had been dragged to the walls lay in smouldering, stinking ruins on the charred grounds before the city gates, the still-burning flesh of their occupants filling the air with a sickly scent. New towers were brought forth from time to time; most were patched together from the ruins of others. Daily they attacked and daily they were destroyed. Each tower was capable of housing large waves of warriors, beastmen and mutants, disgorging them onto the front lines.
But the flood had not lasted. Mostly the attacking force came in sporadic bursts – but the fact of the matter was that they still came. So much death and yet so many continued to attack.
Darkhand watched it all and adjusted battle strategies. He engaged Chaos troops until it seemed there could be no more to give. The twists of fate had granted him a second shot at the great prize and he grasped it with both hands.
He engaged Valkia for a second time atop a pile of stone spreading out between two of the remaining towers. Their interrupted duel resumed as though the intervening time had not happened. The two warriors came together in a second clash of strength and will. Darkhand gave his all to the fight despite his weariness and the tiredness that dogged at him.
He ducked an early flurry of blows, spinning away from the daemon woman. As he fought, his halberd unceremoniously removed the head of one of her marauders who had strayed too close in a moment of bloodthirsty madness. Valkia followed Darkhand with unnatural, bounding grace, casually cutting a pair of crossbow bolts from the air with her spear as she came. Three months of near-constant battle had chewed the walls of Naggarond into a ragged stretch of ugly, black rubble pierced with towering, obsidian fangs. Skirmishes continued, fresh – but ever-decreasing – waves of barbarians attacking daily, but never with the sheer impact of that first day.
Valkia thrust her spear at the retreating dark elf, the tip of it scoring the surface of one of his pauldrons. She had quickly grown used to the wicked enchantment worked into her foe’s armour and the pain that came with striking him. She was consort to the god of battles; her immortal frame would far outlast the yielding flesh of her enemy. To her, this was simply prey that kicked back. And she liked that in her victims.
She lunged again, but Darkhand turned the strike aside and spun, delivering an artful kick that was designed to trip her.
Valkia hurdled the kick, bringing her weapon down in an overhead strike that would have pinned him to the floor had he not intercepted it. Spear and halberd locked together in a spray of arcane sparks and sizzling blood. The earth shook, dislodging a shower of broken rock and bodies from the rubble, but neither warrior spared a glance at what was happening as they wrestled to gain the advantage. Valkia’s eyes burned into Darkhand’s soul and he could feel his self-control begin to soften. He felt an urge to yield to this creature. His iron will was not as indomitable as he had thought.
No, came a whisper in his thoughts, a whisper that came in his own voice. Naggarond must stand. He ripped his gaze from hers and ducked backwards, breaking the deadlock briefly before their weapons re-joined.
A slaughterbrute bounded across the debris, snorting and bellowing in fury. Corded muscles rippled beneath its hide and saliva flecked its jaw. It towered over the figures struggling on the walls, its crimson-skinned bulk studded with spines and the hafts of broken weapons. Its head was the size of a cart and sported a face that was an unnatural cross between canine and reptile and a wide maw studded with rows of jagged teeth. Valkia shrieked in frustration at yet another interruption, but turned the creature’s charge in her favour. She nimbly moved to the side, leaving its thundering passage clear. It charged up the rubble, bloodied saliva flying from its mouth and Darkhand was struck temporarily motionless as he stared at it bearing down upon him.
As the creature came closer, he braced himself to receive the charge.
He was robbed of his chance to kill it by a nest of serpentine heads striking outwards from the city side of the rubble. A hydra, bleeding from a score of wounds and enraged beyond control, rushed the approaching brute, sinking both teeth and claws into its hide. The impact was tremendous, breaking bones and crushing flesh in an instant. The beasts rolled and struggled, biting and clawing at each other. Darkhand embraced the moment of distraction and leaped with grace onto a ruined section of rampart. Valkia hovered there, her wings working slowly in the hot wind, fanning the drifting cinders and ash.
‘Everything you know will be as ashes,’ she hissed and stared at him. ‘Blood and ashes.’
Darkhand did not reply. His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere over Valkia’s right shoulder where he had seen a sight that filled him with grim resolve, awe and a sense of impending victory. He looked at the red-armoured daemon and a slow smile spread across his face. It gave him intense satisfaction to see a look of momentary distrust... confusion, even, in her smouldering eyes.
‘Centuries from now,’ he said, ‘my city may fall to ashes. But it will not be today.’ The daemonic woman halted her attack and stiffened as a marrow-curdling scream tore through the mists. She turned her head in the direction of Darkhand’s gaze and curses spat forth from her perfect lips. Darkhand felt a surge of joy at the sight before him. The timing was superb and even though he had be sure, in his heart, that he would witness this turn of events, he was still glad enough that he was right. Darkhand’s eyes settled upon the huge creature that had hoved into view. He had seen this beast’s arrival on countless occasions but it always took his breath away.
Its name was Seraphon and its bulk was enormous, the vast wingspan eclipsing the wan light from the north. Its gnarled, scaled flesh was harder than iron or stone and with powerful beats of its wings, the dragon descended from the clouds like a stygian god. Darkhand gripped his halberd and drove his gaze upwards to seek out the beast’s rider.
Seated high between the dragon’s shoulders rode Malekith the Witch King. Black lightning played around his fingertips and a nimbus of shadows danced at his brow as he cast his burning gaze over the marauder horde.
Seraphon swooped low and a huge blast of acrid breath crumbled the remaining siege tower, eliciting a great cry of defiance from the defenders of Naggarond. Acid-eaten bone and decaying wood collapsed in splinters, crushing warriors and blocking the approach. Seraphon swept the length of the wall, its claws and breath scouring the rubble of life and butchering marauders by the score.
Valkia’s gaze turned upwards. Her breath hissed out slowly through her fangs and the muscles in her neck tensed. She flicked a furious glare at Darkhand and then, with a few beats of her wings, took to the air in pursuit of the dragon.
Malekith kept the battle tight, Seraphon’s wings easily keeping him steady, hovering just above the city, allowing its rider the ability to focus on his opponent. Forced into the position of a bystander, Darkhand clenched his hands into fists as he observed the encounter. Archers on the walls were loosing their projectiles at Valkia as she drove herself upwards with tremendous force. Each arrow fell shy of its mark, falling to the ground and peppering the ravaged grounds before the city.
‘You fight well, dark elf,’ she said as her wings beat slowly, allowing her to maintain her untouchable position. ‘Let’s see how well you take a full assault.’ She lifted her head and rose up, disappearing into the smoke and clouds of the boiling storm.
Kruath watched as Darkhand, clearly confused by this sudden move, turned circles, Crimson Death held before him, the captain’s dark hair whipping around his sharp features. In the heat of battle, there was little time to stop and contemplate the enemy’s actions. But Valkia’s sudden withdrawal caused Kruath to pause. He looked about him, taking in the sights and sounds of the pitched battles that were keeping elves and barbarians alike occupied. He did not consider for one moment that she had fled; all accounts he had heard or read suggested that the minions of the Blood God did not retreat. He dropped low, looking over the edge of the wall in case she had dropped down below the dip of the city’s protection, but there was no sight of her.
‘Come back and fight me, witch!’ Darkhand’s voice threaded upwards through the contrails of magical fire and were echoed back down at him by a mocking, male voice that sounded not unlike the voice which had echoed in Kruath’s head. He shuddered involuntarily as it called.
Come back and fight me, witch!
The laughter grew louder and louder until moments later, Valkia plunged down through the skies, her scream increasing in pitch and volume as she descended on Kouran Darkhand, Slaupnir held before her like a bloody lance. Kruath could see the outcome in his mind’s eye and in that moment, he saw his chance. Ambition, bloodlust and the influence of the daemon twisted in his mind. It choked what hold on the present he might have had and blinded him with a glorious future. He could do what so many others had tried and failed to do.
The captain was wholly focused on Valkia, his eyes turned upward to the descending daemon. If Kruath struck quickly, he could do it. Then, when the siege was inevitably broken, he would kneel before the Witch King and claim Darkhand’s power for his own. He could do it.
Kruath stabbed another beastman that had made its way over the wall, barged a warrior aside and ducked beneath the grasping pseudopods of a shapeless thing that had reached the embrasures.
He would kill Darkhand. He would kill Valkia. He would kill everyone who stood between him and what he knew with absolute certainty was his birthright. He would be the new captain of the Black Guard and he would become a legend.
Glory. Riches. Fame. Respect. All these things beckoned him, though he heard nothing but the pounding of the blood through his veins as he prepared to kill his commander.
His moment of self-absorption did not last long. His course towards the battling pair took him past the closest sentry tower, one of hundreds that rose at intervals along the wall’s vast length. There was a resonant boom, louder than the crack of lightning and the roar of battle shook the earth. Faster than his mind could comprehend, and faster still than his reflexes could work against, the wall exploded, flattening the surrounding warriors with hunks of black stone and sending the structure plunging into the moat of fire. A great cheer went up from the horde as the wreckage formed a dusty bridge across the sorcerous flames. Then something struck the wall beneath Kruath and his world turned into a jumble of sky and flying rock.
There was no time to consider the implications of what had happened because a blood-slick, obsidian surface rushed up to meet him. Within seconds, Kruath’s ambitions were as crushed and broken as his body.
He died in terrible agony, his dream unrealised.
Darkhand heard Valkia’s shriek of fury as a great plume of dust and smoke eclipsed her prey and her dive turned into a swoop that carried her clear of the carnage. He breathed again, unaware that he had even been holding that breath. Far to the rear of the army, a line of Hellcannons belched their fiery projectiles, punishing the city’s defences. It was by no means anything to be grateful for, but it had perhaps saved him from death at Valkia’s hand. The daemon hissed her disappointment at the interruption of the duel and spread her wings, allowing a passing updraft to carry her into the sky. She held her position for a while, her wings beating powerfully and keeping her hovering. Her gaze remained locked on Darkhand for a few moments longer. Then she let out a battle cry and turned her attentions elsewhere, her interest in Darkhand lost.
Darkhand stepped back, deftly avoiding the sprawled, crushed body of a fallen warrior. He vaguely recognised the ruined face of the rider from Volroth, but dismissed the detail as trivial. Victory was all that mattered, not the dead. He wiped the blood from his eyes and looked about. Valkia was gone, the duel interrupted, and he was free to turn his attentions back to the heart of battle. He turned his head this way and that, seeking the rest of his Black Guard and assessing the situation. All he saw was dust and fire.
A huge section near the top of the wall had been blasted away and had collapsed into a fan of rubble, crushing hundreds of warriors and forming a rough ramp that bridged the moat. Warriors and crossbowmen were picking themselves up from the shattered rock and offering desultory resistance to the marauders and beasts that were already scrambling to exploit the weakness and gain the walls. He allowed himself to catch his breath and scrambled down to stand beside two other dark elves who were battling a troll. There was hope all the time the Black Guard still stood, and Kouran Darkhand would stand in a position where others could see him and recognise that hope.
‘Black Guard! To me!’
His voice was loud enough to be heard over the sounds of battle, the clashing of steel the screaming of the dying, and those who could hear him answered his rallying call as swiftly as they could. They formed a solid knot of fighters, packing themselves tightly together and delivering retribution on the Chaos army. Yet still the Hellcannons were eating away at the walls of their city. The Chaos army was unrelenting. It pounded and drove forwards, all around the great city, marauders and monsters attempting to breach the walls.
His blood fired.
‘The jewel of Naggaroth is not for these vermin,’ he roared. ‘If they want blood, then let us give it to them! Drown them in their own! For Naggarond! For Malekith!’
The rousing words ignited a fresh rush of determination in the elves and in perfect unison they inched forwards to fight back the flood of barbarians preparing to surge into the city.
A shadow overhead raised a ripple of shouting and pointing amongst the warriors battling closest. A huge manticore bearing a sorceress soared above the wall and headed for the rear of the Chaos lines. Valkia raced in her wake but other sorceresses struggling with the harpies broke from their combat temporarily to hurl arcs of power at the daemon princess. The diversion was successful, if costly, as flocks of harpies descended on the walls to hurl screaming figures over the parapets. Valkia ducked and weaved between the magical assaults and shielded her body from another. Black lightning crashed against Locephax and the former daemon prince of Slaanesh absorbed it into his twisted being. His eyes and mouth opened wide and fingers of purple fire returned to the caster, immolating her with a flash of vile energies.
It was time enough for the beast-riding sorceress to cast her own spells, and blades of shadow fell among the Hellcannons, ripping crew apart and shattering chains of binding. Several of the weapons simply vanished with thunderclaps of power, while others went mad, running amok through the barbarian hordes and crushing all in their path. A ragged cheer went up from the walls of the beleaguered city as the bombardment faltered. The sorceress turned her steed back towards the walls, its leathery wings keeping her from the reach of the howling mob below. The Hellcannons had caused minimal damage during their relentless assault, knocking a hole at the top of a single section of wall. Any breach the Chaos army had hoped to achieve with the siege weapons had failed – and now they had lost the means to further that line of attack.
Darkhand scoured the skies desperately, searching for the warrior queen, but the winged horror was nowhere to be seen. He quelled his rising sense of disappointment and focused on the defence of the walls. More barbarians were arriving all the time, but their fury, and the weight of numbers between them and the walls made it impossible for them to reach the city. Thousands of marauders streamed around the city, breaking off towards the east and west and into the Iron Mountains. In doing so, they continued their march further south in search of easier, or more immediate prey upon which to slake their thirst for blood.
Naggarond had withstood the initial onslaught and as it had done for countless years, it would continue to stand firm and proud. However, it was not going to be an easy task.
Darkhand glanced up at the huge, sinister figure of the Witch King and paused in his retelling of the siege. Malekith was a silent and taciturn audience, but he listened to everything. He sat astride the sinuous bulk of Seraphon, his ancient black dragon, and led a long column of warriors and Black Guard across the northern reaches of Naggaroth. How easily Darkhand could guess at their ultimate destination, but years of association suggested to him that it was unwise to assume the thoughts of the Witch King and more, it was utterly foolish to question him.
‘That, then, was how we broke their attempt to lay waste to Naggarond on the first day, my lord.’ Darkhand continued once the lengthy silence suggested that Malekith had nothing to say. ‘We robbed them of their momentum and deprived them of the kill, and the greater number passed us by and continued south. Had they chosen to press the attack…’
There was a creak of ancient joints and armour as the Witch King turned to regard the captain. Wisps of power smouldered from the carved sockets of his monstrous mask and curled around the knotted crown that he wore at his brow. The attention of the Witch King was like an open blast furnace turning its heat upon you and Darkhand stiffened under the sudden scrutiny. He fought with his instincts to shuffle like a recruit. Malekith crooked one finger: a barely perceptible movement that indicated Darkhand should continue. The captain swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
‘Had they chosen to press the attack, then we would have broken them still. Your warriors, my lord, are as tenacious as they are loyal. As it was, we bled them for ninety days and nights before…’
Supplies of bolts for both the crossbows and the siege weapons were all but exhausted and the ground before the city was littered with thousands of punctured corpses and the speared bodies of giants and mammoths. Still they fought on. Darkhand was weary, exhausted, bruised and battered, but still he led his men in the defence.
The twisted siege towers that had been dragged to the walls lay in smouldering, stinking ruins on the charred grounds before the city gates, the still-burning flesh of their occupants filling the air with a sickly scent. New towers were brought forth from time to time; most were patched together from the ruins of others. Daily they attacked and daily they were destroyed. Each tower was capable of housing large waves of warriors, beastmen and mutants, disgorging them onto the front lines.
But the flood had not lasted. Mostly the attacking force came in sporadic bursts – but the fact of the matter was that they still came. So much death and yet so many continued to attack.
Darkhand watched it all and adjusted battle strategies. He engaged Chaos troops until it seemed there could be no more to give. The twists of fate had granted him a second shot at the great prize and he grasped it with both hands.
He engaged Valkia for a second time atop a pile of stone spreading out between two of the remaining towers. Their interrupted duel resumed as though the intervening time had not happened. The two warriors came together in a second clash of strength and will. Darkhand gave his all to the fight despite his weariness and the tiredness that dogged at him.
He ducked an early flurry of blows, spinning away from the daemon woman. As he fought, his halberd unceremoniously removed the head of one of her marauders who had strayed too close in a moment of bloodthirsty madness. Valkia followed Darkhand with unnatural, bounding grace, casually cutting a pair of crossbow bolts from the air with her spear as she came. Three months of near-constant battle had chewed the walls of Naggarond into a ragged stretch of ugly, black rubble pierced with towering, obsidian fangs. Skirmishes continued, fresh – but ever-decreasing – waves of barbarians attacking daily, but never with the sheer impact of that first day.
Valkia thrust her spear at the retreating dark elf, the tip of it scoring the surface of one of his pauldrons. She had quickly grown used to the wicked enchantment worked into her foe’s armour and the pain that came with striking him. She was consort to the god of battles; her immortal frame would far outlast the yielding flesh of her enemy. To her, this was simply prey that kicked back. And she liked that in her victims.
She lunged again, but Darkhand turned the strike aside and spun, delivering an artful kick that was designed to trip her.
Valkia hurdled the kick, bringing her weapon down in an overhead strike that would have pinned him to the floor had he not intercepted it. Spear and halberd locked together in a spray of arcane sparks and sizzling blood. The earth shook, dislodging a shower of broken rock and bodies from the rubble, but neither warrior spared a glance at what was happening as they wrestled to gain the advantage. Valkia’s eyes burned into Darkhand’s soul and he could feel his self-control begin to soften. He felt an urge to yield to this creature. His iron will was not as indomitable as he had thought.
No, came a whisper in his thoughts, a whisper that came in his own voice. Naggarond must stand. He ripped his gaze from hers and ducked backwards, breaking the deadlock briefly before their weapons re-joined.
A slaughterbrute bounded across the debris, snorting and bellowing in fury. Corded muscles rippled beneath its hide and saliva flecked its jaw. It towered over the figures struggling on the walls, its crimson-skinned bulk studded with spines and the hafts of broken weapons. Its head was the size of a cart and sported a face that was an unnatural cross between canine and reptile and a wide maw studded with rows of jagged teeth. Valkia shrieked in frustration at yet another interruption, but turned the creature’s charge in her favour. She nimbly moved to the side, leaving its thundering passage clear. It charged up the rubble, bloodied saliva flying from its mouth and Darkhand was struck temporarily motionless as he stared at it bearing down upon him.
As the creature came closer, he braced himself to receive the charge.
He was robbed of his chance to kill it by a nest of serpentine heads striking outwards from the city side of the rubble. A hydra, bleeding from a score of wounds and enraged beyond control, rushed the approaching brute, sinking both teeth and claws into its hide. The impact was tremendous, breaking bones and crushing flesh in an instant. The beasts rolled and struggled, biting and clawing at each other. Darkhand embraced the moment of distraction and leaped with grace onto a ruined section of rampart. Valkia hovered there, her wings working slowly in the hot wind, fanning the drifting cinders and ash.
‘Everything you know will be as ashes,’ she hissed and stared at him. ‘Blood and ashes.’
Darkhand did not reply. His gaze was fixed on a point somewhere over Valkia’s right shoulder where he had seen a sight that filled him with grim resolve, awe and a sense of impending victory. He looked at the red-armoured daemon and a slow smile spread across his face. It gave him intense satisfaction to see a look of momentary distrust... confusion, even, in her smouldering eyes.
‘Centuries from now,’ he said, ‘my city may fall to ashes. But it will not be today.’ The daemonic woman halted her attack and stiffened as a marrow-curdling scream tore through the mists. She turned her head in the direction of Darkhand’s gaze and curses spat forth from her perfect lips. Darkhand felt a surge of joy at the sight before him. The timing was superb and even though he had be sure, in his heart, that he would witness this turn of events, he was still glad enough that he was right. Darkhand’s eyes settled upon the huge creature that had hoved into view. He had seen this beast’s arrival on countless occasions but it always took his breath away.
Its name was Seraphon and its bulk was enormous, the vast wingspan eclipsing the wan light from the north. Its gnarled, scaled flesh was harder than iron or stone and with powerful beats of its wings, the dragon descended from the clouds like a stygian god. Darkhand gripped his halberd and drove his gaze upwards to seek out the beast’s rider.
Seated high between the dragon’s shoulders rode Malekith the Witch King. Black lightning played around his fingertips and a nimbus of shadows danced at his brow as he cast his burning gaze over the marauder horde.
Seraphon swooped low and a huge blast of acrid breath crumbled the remaining siege tower, eliciting a great cry of defiance from the defenders of Naggarond. Acid-eaten bone and decaying wood collapsed in splinters, crushing warriors and blocking the approach. Seraphon swept the length of the wall, its claws and breath scouring the rubble of life and butchering marauders by the score.
Valkia’s gaze turned upwards. Her breath hissed out slowly through her fangs and the muscles in her neck tensed. She flicked a furious glare at Darkhand and then, with a few beats of her wings, took to the air in pursuit of the dragon.
Malekith kept the battle tight, Seraphon’s wings easily keeping him steady, hovering just above the city, allowing its rider the ability to focus on his opponent. Forced into the position of a bystander, Darkhand clenched his hands into fists as he observed the encounter. Archers on the walls were loosing their projectiles at Valkia as she drove herself upwards with tremendous force. Each arrow fell shy of its mark, falling to the ground and peppering the ravaged grounds before the city.
