The end times, p.97
The End Times, page 97
‘Yes, oh mighty git,’ Wurrzag squawked, shaking his staff.
‘And stop calling me a git,’ Grimgor roared, as the shaman twitched past him. He turned and raised his axe. ‘Golgfag, get over ’ere,’ he snarled, as he caught the ogre’s attention. Golgfag muscled aside a couple of orcs, and only had to thump one of them. They were scared of the ogre, and Grimgor didn’t like that. The only thing his lads ought to be scared of was him. ‘Get your lads up here,’ he bellowed at the ogre. ‘Me and you are breaking that shield-wall. You got a problem with that?’ He glared at the ogre challengingly. Golgfag and his ogres had joined the Waaagh! as it crossed the Worlds Edge Mountains, and he’d come close to killing the mercenary more than once. Every time, Gork had whispered to him and quelled his anger.
The big ogre had proven more useful than most of his greedy kin – he was as smart as any runt, and dead sneaky when he needed to be. It had been Golgfag who had got the gates of Zharr Naggrund open, so Grimgor’s lads could barrel in. The ogre had held the great iron gates open, despite having half a dozen stunty crossbow bolts in him. He and Grimgor had fought side by side and back to back up the steps of the black ziggurat, and had toppled the massive statue of the stunties’ bull-god, alongside Borgut Facebeater and Wurrzag. That had been a good day, even if he’d had to kill ol’ Borgut later, on account of him trying to make himself boss. He missed Borgut. Not at the moment, but in general.
‘Got no problems, boss,’ Golgfag rumbled. He wore a heavy horned helm that added to his already considerable height, and for an instant, Grimgor considered cutting him off at the knees. He didn’t like standing in the ogre’s shadow. ‘Happy to bash whoever, wherever, whenever.’
‘Good,’ Grimgor grunted. He heard the air sizzle behind him, and felt his skin prickle. The light turned green, and cast weird shadows on the buildings around them. All around him, orcs, ogres and goblins set up a caterwauling and men screamed. He turned to see Wurrzag dancing a madcap jig as the shield-wall crumbled beneath a storm of crackling emerald lightning. Grimgor felt the strength of Gork rising in him, an elemental fury that outstripped even his own boiling anger. He grinned and Golgfag stepped back warily.
‘Let’s get to bashing then,’ Grimgor snarled. He lifted his axe and waved his Immortulz forwards. Golgfag roared out for his followers, and the mingled wedge of black orcs and ogres took the fore as they thundered towards the enemy lines that Wurrzag had softened up. Grimgor sped up, wanting to get the first lick in. He caught Gitsnik in both hands and lifted it. ‘I’m gonna stomp you ta dust, and break your bones,’ he roared, hurling his words towards the faltering shield-wall. ‘I’m gonna pile yer bodies in a big fire and cook ’em good! I’m gonna bash heads, break ya faces and jump up and down on the bits that are left!’
And when I get where Gork wants me ta go, I’m gonna get really mean, he thought in satisfaction. Then, he was upon the enemy, and there was no need to think at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Temple of Ulric, the Ulricsmund
‘How tedious. Surely we are all capable commanders. I do not need my hand held, even if I were intending to commit myself to an afternoon of carnage,’ Sigvald the Magnificent groaned, one arm flung over his head as he reclined on the steps of the dais which led up to Archaon’s throne. ‘Dechala, my love, please inform the Everchosen that I am afflicted with ennui and will be unable to sully my fingers with the grime of battle today.’ He flapped a hand at the serpentine shape of the daemon princess known as Dechala the Denied One.
Dechala possessed the upper body of the beautiful elven princess she had once been, and the lower body of an immense serpent. She hissed at Sigvald. Whether it was a sign of annoyance, or some form of flirtation, Canto could not say. He watched as she slithered closer to the manacled form of the elf mage, Teclis, where he lay huddled next to the dais. His robes were filthy and blackened and his face was turned away from the gathering, but Canto knew he was still paying close attention, even so. He was a cool one, was the elf, and he stank of powerful magics. Even though he was a prisoner, Canto knew it was best not to get too close to him. Dechala, however, seemed unconcerned. She caressed him gently, as if trying to tease a lover awake, and leaned close, her tongue flickering.
She caught Canto watching her, and wrinkled her nose in a fashion that had him momentarily forgetting the six arms and the spiky bits. Don’t even think it, Canto, he thought. Those who knew such things said that Dechala’s embrace was a moment of pleasure, followed by an eternity of pain. She had been in Ind, he knew, alongside Arbaal, bringing the wrath of the gods down on that far land, until she and her rival had been scooped up by whatever dark forces were responsible for such things and brought to Middenheim.
He turned away as one of the others he’d brought to the temple at Archaon’s behest made his feelings known. ‘Cease your prattling, Geld-Prince,’ Arbaal the Undefeated rumbled. ‘The gods have called us here to do battle with their enemies. Would you deny their wishes?’
‘And are you so arrogant as to know the wishes of a god not your own?’ the horned, winged creature known as Azazel, the Prince of Damnation, purred as he sauntered out from behind Archaon’s throne. The daemon prince’s talons clicked across the haft of Ghal Maraz, where it was mounted above the throne.
Arbaal growled wordlessly and hefted his axe. A large, scaly paw pressed itself to his cuirass, stopping him from hurling himself at Azazel. ‘None of us know the will of the gods,’ Throgg, the self-proclaimed King of the Trolls, rasped. ‘At least not until it is too late.’ The troll was larger than any other of his kind that Canto had ever had the misfortune to run across. And his eerie self-control was equally as disturbing as Dechala’s sinuous attempts at seduction. They said the troll had been plucked from Kislev by the whims of the gods, and that he bore the marks of battle on him. Canto wondered who would be insane enough to go toe-to-toe with Throgg. Then, he wondered whether they had survived.
‘All I know is that I was enjoying the finest flesh Parravon had to offer, before I was whisked back to this inglorious termite mound,’ Sigvald said. ‘I am without even my sword-boy, or my mirror-eunuchs. How am I expected to perform without my mirror-eunuchs?’
‘We all have our burdens to bear, Geld-Prince,’ Mannfred von Carstein said. The vampire examined his talons, not looking at Sigvald, or, more pointedly, at the shrouded figure of Isabella von Carstein, who stood well away from the creature who shared her name. The two vampires had studiously ignored one another since Mannfred’s arrival.
Canto watched Mannfred warily. He still didn’t understand why Archaon had allowed the beast, or, for that matter, creatures like the renegade dark elf priestess Hellebron, into the city. They were treachery incarnate, and if they knew what the Everchosen was planning – indeed, if any of the gathered champions knew – they would turn on him in an instant. ‘And in any event, eunuchs are easily replaced,’ Mannfred continued.
‘Are you volunteering, prince of leeches?’ Sigvald purred. ‘I believe I have just the paring knife for you…’
Mannfred laughed. ‘Would that I could, barbarian.’ The vampire turned his red gaze on Sigvald. ‘Would that I could match my strength against yours, but… well. We have enemies enough, I think, and on our very doorstep.’
‘Our doorstep, vampire?’
Canto stiffened as Archaon’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘You have brought them all?’ the Everchosen said, gazing at the assemblage.
‘As many as weren’t already engaged, my lord,’ Canto said, as Archaon stepped past him. ‘Hellebron has already brought the foe to battle in the Palast District, and only a few of the skaven are not currently hard-pressed,’ he continued, gesturing to the tiny knot of skaven who stood near von Carstein. The ratmen looked nervous, as well they should have – they were not well liked by their allies. ‘Harald Hammerstorm will do as he wills, as ever. And the other warlords send their regrets, I’m sure.’ Not that there were many of the latter left. Most of the champions and warlords worth the name had already gone to join the gods, in one fashion or another. Those that hadn’t died in the taking of the city, or during the assault on Averheim, had crossed Archaon and paid for that temerity with their lives.
‘What of the Broken King?’ Archaon asked, his amusement evident.
Mannfred and Isabella were not the only dead things in Archaon’s service. The Broken King was another – a foreign potentate, ruler of a dead land, clad in shattered vestments and filthy wrappings. He was one of the skeletal princes of far Nehekhara, though which one, he had never revealed, even as he prostrated himself before the Everchosen’s throne in the months after the destruction of Averheim.
‘He has already gone to confront the enemy,’ Canto said. In truth, he did not know where the Broken King was, or what he was up to, and he did not feel like hunting the creature down to ask it. Let it live or die, as it wished.
Archaon said nothing for long moments. Then he shook himself slightly, and murmured, ‘Monsters and fools. How fitting.’ He looked around. ‘We are besieged. You all know this, and you know too that this is the last roll of the dice for our enemies. This is the last gasp of the civilised lands, and when this battle is done… the gods will reward us.’ Archaon made a fist. Canto felt a chill streak through him, and he glanced upwards, towards the red sky clearly visible through the shattered dome of the temple.
The gods are watching, he thought. But he didn’t think they particularly cared who won. He looked at Archaon. You don’t either. Not really. Because you think you’ve already won. It’s a foregone conclusion to you… Because it wasn’t about battles or enemies for Archaon. Not now. Now it was all about time and fire. While the rest fought, he contented himself with stoking the flames. Canto gripped the hilt of his sword and wondered how one might escape those flames when one was already in the pot.
Archaon was still talking. ‘The enemy are scattered, for now. If we are quick, we might be able to destroy them piecemeal. If not, well…’ He spread his hands. ‘Such is the will of the gods.’ He gestured to Arbaal. ‘Most important are those closest to hand. A host of elves is on our doorstep, just east of here. Their skulls are yours, should you wish.’
Arbaal nodded silently. Archaon looked at Dechala. ‘You will take the south – the Sudgarten. The enemy muster there as well.’ As the elf-snake hissed her agreement, Archaon motioned to Isabella. ‘And you, countess… you shall reinforce Hellebron in the Palast District. Catch the enemy between the engines of blood and pox, and crush them.’
Isabella, face hidden behind her veil, gave no sign that she’d heard. Instead, she simply turned and strode away, accompanied by Arbaal and Dechala. Canto looked towards the dais and saw that Azazel was gone as well, though the daemon prince had been given no orders. Archaon didn’t seem concerned for such trivialities. He turned to the skaven. ‘Darkendwel,’ he said, addressing the large shape which crouched above the knot of skaven warlords, perched high on a broken statue.
The shadowy shape of the skaven verminlord twitched as Archaon spoke its name. The squabbling warlords and seers gathered about it fell silent as the Everchosen turned to face Darkendwel. ‘The orcs in the merchant district. Do they fight alongside the others?’ Archaon asked. ‘Have our enemies grown so desperate as to elicit the aid of mindless savages?’
‘No, O most mighty King-With-Three-Eyes,’ the verminlord chittered. It hesitated, and then added, ‘Or such does not appear to be the case.’
‘Then find out,’ Archaon rumbled. ‘Lead them towards… the Wynd, I think. Let us see if they prefer the elves as playmates.’ Archaon cocked his head, as if in thought. Then, ‘I was sorry to hear that your fellow verminlord, Visretch, fell to the blade of the elf-prince, Tyrion. I had much I wished to discuss with him, when the time came.’ Canto smiled as Darkendwel tensed. One of the verminlords had been responsible for killing Valten, against Archaon’s wishes. The Everchosen hadn’t found out which one had struck the blow, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
‘He died in your name, O most magnificent god-king,’ the verminlord intoned.
‘Then you can do no less,’ Archaon said. He turned and pointed at Sigvald. ‘The dead are yours. I want the skull of this so-called Undying King for a drinking cup, Geld-Prince.’ Archaon glanced at Throgg. ‘You will take your forces and join him. Sigvald will require assistance.’
‘I require no such thing,’ Sigvald said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘And I will not share my glory with an ape in a crown.’ He gestured dismissively towards Throgg. ‘I can barely tolerate his smell… How do you expect me to fight alongside him?’
‘I do not,’ Archaon said simply. ‘I expect you to die beside him. Perhaps I am mistaken. I am curious to see which it is.’
Sigvald gaped at him. The Geld-Prince’s hand strayed towards the hilt of his sword, but Throgg reached him first. One scaly hand clamped down hard, trapping Sigvald’s hand and wrist. The troll-king grinned unpleasantly. ‘Come, beautiful one. We have carrion birds to feed, and dead men to set to rest,’ Throgg rumbled. Sigvald jerked his hand free of the brute’s grip and hurried away, Throgg trailing after.
‘And what of me, O mighty Everchosen? What are your commands for me?’ Mannfred said, bowing obsequiously, as they left. Archaon climbed the dais and took down Ghal Maraz before he glanced at him.
‘Go where thou wilt, and die as you wish, leech. I have no commands for you, save that you remember whose side you have chosen, and that the gods have your scent, and they will harry you to destruction, should you forget.’ Archaon gestured dismissively with the hammer.
Canto smiled slightly, pleased. Mannfred annoyed him. Only room enough for two lickspittles in this court, I’m afraid, he thought. As if the vampire had heard his thoughts, Mannfred turned a red-eyed glare on him. Canto’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but Mannfred stormed past him, trailing shadow and the stink of old blood in his wake.
‘I’m going to have to kill him, I think,’ he said, without thinking.
‘Possibly,’ Archaon said. He still held Ghal Maraz in his hands. ‘Then, possibly, it shall become unnecessary before long. It is all winding down, Canto. Can you not hear it? The wind which howls through the streets is the dying gasp of this sad world. The tremors which shake this mountain are but its death-shudders. Soon, it will all be done. All lies revealed, all gods thrown down, and the earth and sky made one.’
Canto shivered in his armour. His hand was still around the hilt of his sword. One blow, that’s all it would take… One swift blow, and then… Cathay, he thought. Only there wasn’t a Cathay any more, or an Araby, or anywhere that wasn’t here. Still… just one blow…
‘It would take more than one, Canto, and you know it,’ Archaon said, softly. He did not turn around. Canto froze nonetheless. ‘You had your chance once, to change the fate of all things, and you squandered it. You ran, rather than make a choice. In the end, it all comes down to choices, Canto. You chose to remain a man, in a world fit only for monsters. And now you face another choice.’
Archaon turned, Ghal Maraz swinging loosely in his grip. ‘The gods are always of two minds, Canto. One mind says strike, and the other says hold. The gods see all possibilities and none, and they are blinded by this wealth of knowledge. So they plot within plot, and scheme against themselves, even in their moment of victory. For if I succeed, the game ends. The world ends and their playthings are but ashes on the cosmic wind.’ He lifted the ancient hammer, turning it slightly in his grip, as if to admire the way the light glinted off the runes which marked its surface. ‘Like this hammer, the Dark Gods are both creator and destroyer, and they cannot make up their minds as to which they are in any given moment.’
He swung the hammer experimentally. ‘They are idiot gods, Canto – they are more powerful than you can conceive, but in truth, they are little better than giggling imbeciles, drawing shapes in the mud. They will crush this world into dust and blow it away, and then move on to some other world, some other place where the game begins again. That is the truth of it.’ Archaon tossed the hammer aside carelessly, and it thumped down with a hollow clang. ‘In a way, you were wise not to pledge your allegiance to any of them. That alone has given you the will to decide your own fate. The others will fight, because their gods demand blood. But you have a choice. Indeed, you have so many choices that I cannot help but envy you. I have no choices left to make, and am bound to my path.’
Canto shook his head. ‘What… what choices?’ he croaked.
‘You could kill me,’ Archaon said. He spread his arms. ‘It might be enough to halt what has begun. With me dead, the gods would certainly turn away, though whether in satisfaction or anger, I cannot say. Or you could run. You could flee, and live for however long the world remains. I will not stop you.’ Archaon crossed his arms. ‘You could fight. You could be Unsworn no more, and perhaps even gain some measure of power in these final hours. Become a demigod like Azazel or Dechala, eternal and inhuman.’
Canto stared at him. After a moment, he said, ‘None of those sound particularly enjoyable.’ He looked down at his hand, clamped tight to the hilt of his sword, and, not for the first time, thought of Count Mordrek and the way he’d died. An ending, that’s all any of us are after, he thought.
‘Nonetheless, the choice is upon you at last. What do you wish to do, Unsworn?’ Archaon asked. ‘Which road will you take? Once, you showed some small touch of mercy, and spared the world its due punishment. Now, you have that chance again. Will you show it mercy a second time?’ There was something in Archaon’s voice which made Canto hesitate. A note of pleading perhaps, or resignation. It was the voice, not of a conqueror, or a great champion, but a man tired unto death, and wanting only oblivion.
