The Salvation Of The World: (Autumn 2528 Imperial Calendar)
The ancient sphere finally splintered and collapsed in on itself as the damages wrought upon it by Archaon's sorcerers shattered the smooth veneer. A dark and terrible rift replaced the shiny skin of the former artefact and began to steadily expand with a dread and hungry certainty.
Howling winds ripped through the remains of the interior of the Fauschlag. The last few remaining mortal warriors were buffeted by the deluge whilst the remaining Daemons seemed to disintegrate. Their very essences were undone by the powerful gales that tore at their bodies and melted their physical forms. The last few remains of the forces of Chaos were carried into the dark empty void that was forming where the Old One artefact once stood. The stone floor ran as if it were water and the walls oozed unidentifiable slime as the warping powers of Chaos erupted from the ruined artefact. The entire mountain seemed to buck in protest at the forces that were being unleashed within it and the Incarnates struggled to remain upright even as their own fatigue struck them.
"Quickly," came the weary voice of the Archmage Teclis, "we do not have much time. The rift has already begun to expand, we must close it before it grows beyond control."
The exhausted Incarnates struggled to respond. All of them were drained by the battles they had fought, even Nagash, the Great Necromancer, seemed shrunken and lesser than he had been at the battle's beginning. Alarielle the Everqueen and Incarnate of Life, her innate connection to the Weave allowing her to feel the world's suffering, was the most pained of the small and rag-tag group. She struggled to stand as the Incarnates all wearily moved into a rough semi-circle that faced the rift.
"You must all channel your power out from the rift," Teclis shouted over the howling of the rift and the winds of magical power that swirled around them, his voice now little more than a strained croak, "it must be drained before it can sustain itself."
Guided by an instinct that few of them truly understood the six Incarnates reached out and grasped the Wind of Magic that they were each individually tied to. Unfathomable incantations began to fill the chamber as each Incarnate joined the Archmage in calming the winds.
Harnessing the supernatural energies that swirled around and within them the incarnates channelled their energies deep into the rift. Then, guided by Teclis' incantations, they drew the power out. With slow and exhausting steadiness the rift was diminished as the power that was forced into it and then ripped back out stole it's own energies in turn. With every heartbeat the Incarnates words matched one another's pace until they were all speaking with one voice.
Suddenly the ritual became strained as the wild and uncontrolled winds of Aqshy and Ghur began to disrupt the Incarnates' recitations. Desperate, Teclis grasped at the swirling power around him and his companions and harnessed them. Driving his staff into the ground as an anchor for the magical winds, he too began to channel the supernatural forces into himself. Unfortunately not even he, for all of his skill and strength, was unable to withstand the power of two Winds of Magic. His skin began to blister and burn as the arcane forces flowing through him began to tear his body apart. Still he continued to recite the various spells he knew would close the rift.
Terrible power still swirled throughout the chamber but slowly the winds began to calm. As Teclis' flesh burnt and stripped away the rift began to shrink. Slowly the edges of the unnatural hole in reality edged away from the Incarnates, collapsing in on itself as the power it needed to exist was drawn away. Teclis and the other Incarnates knew that even with their best efforts the rift was unlikely to close but still they continued, drawing on all of their strength as they saw the rift slowly creep shut.
Mannfred Von Carstein crept into the chamber beneath Middenheim. Entering the vast, crumbling cavern he saw a terrible sight. The Incarnates stood in a line around the great High Elven Archmage Teclis. They were all distracted by some ritual as every one of them glowed with barely contained power that they were all obviously struggling to hold onto.
However it was not the six demigods that held Mannfred's attention. Instead it was the frightening tear in the fabric of reality that the other inhabitants of the chamber were all facing. In an instant Mannfred realised what was going on. The sheer audacity of the Incarnates would have impressed him but he too was distracted by the terrible rift in front of him. Staring into it he saw the fate of all existence, a gaping maw that swallowed everything around it with insatiable hunger and lust.
Looking into the abyss he could hear the whispers of the Dark Gods. Like Kemmler, Harkon and countless others beings of death before him he could hear the promises they offered him. There were rewards beyond counting that awaited him if he served their cause, freedom from Nagash, power, possibly beyond measure, rule over lesser beings and the chance to fulfil himself for all eternity regardless of other being's desires. Every one of these voices caressed his mind sweetly, goading him to disrupt the ritual, steal their power, murder them. All it would take is the loss of one for the fate of the world to be sealed.
Each one of these possibilities enticed him. He had received little reward from his service to Nagash. In fact he had experienced one humiliation after another ever since Arkhan had offered him their alliance years ago.
However at the same time the final words of Vlad, his precursor and father-in-darkness, also drove him. He had decided, in his progenitor's final moments, to stand against Chaos at the side of the Incarnates. However as he had descended down into the Fauschlag and the voices in his mind had grown stronger and louder his resolve had gradually degraded. Now, as he stood on the precipice of fate, he did not know what to do. If he stood with the Incarnates all that awaited him was slavery and the dark attentions of Nagash. What's more his pride could not stand the idea of accepting the Incarnates as his equals, let alone his superiors. However, if he stood beside Chaos he would be immersed in madness and anarchy from which the order and control he wanted to build could never be realised. Now having seen the rift himself he was less certain than ever that the rewards of Chaos would outweigh the costs.
Torn between these two fates Mannfred wavered.
Suddenly Mannfred came to a realisation. He refused to aid Nagash or any of the mortal fools, however, he knew that to serve Chaos was to be a slave in a different fashion. He was Mannfred Von Carstein and he had always chosen the route that best served him. Neither option that awaited him was in his interest and so he decided to refuse both of them.
With a final look of derision at the Incarnates and a wary glance at the shrinking rift, Mannfred Von Carstein turned his back on the chamber and began to climb back up the Fauschlag's walls. He knew that the battle that was still ongoing outside the excavations would serve as a brilliant distraction for him to make his escape out of the ruins of Middenheim.
Teclis' face was drawn into a grimace of pain as the burning of his flesh and the strain of the two Winds of Magic he had harnessed tested his will to its limit. Still he continued his incantations, never once taking a breath as the ritual accelerated and reached its climax.
The rift was almost reaching the tipping point. In only a few heartbeats it would be too small and weak to recover and would collapse in on itself without their intervention, no longer able to draw power into itself.
His entire body felt as if it was engulfed in unbearable flames but not once did he let it interrupt him. These final moments were crucial. Every one of the Incarnates was flagging. The exhaustion of battle, combined with the strain of handling so much power was really beginning to tell. Every one of them was pale and gaunt. Even Nagash stooped as his immortal form experienced fatigue, a sensation that had been foreign to him for millennia. Alarielle appeared on the verge of collapse, Gelt, Malekith and Tyrion all swayed and teetered as if on the precipice of unconsciousness and even the Emperor was fighting to keep his stance.
Teclis could feel his flesh peeling off and his exposed bones blackening and turning to ash. Aqshy and Ghur were still affixed to his crumbling body but he could feel his magical grasp failing.
Suddenly there was an immense, unnatural shriek and the howling winds vanished in an instant. The rift shimmered and wavered, like a mirage in a desert, and then pulled at its own edges. In a matter of heartbeats that also seemed like an eternity the sphere of darkness dragged itself inwards, pulling unevenly at its own edge. Finally there was nothing left of the tear in the world, only the shattered fragments of the Old One Artefact that had been warped beyond recognition by the powers of Chaos. The only sound to penetrate the silence was a loud roar that rose from one of the tears in the cavern floor that quickly transformed into a pained shriek that then shrank into the depths of the Fauschlag.
Like puppets whose strings had been cut the inhabitants of the chamber all fell to the floor. Not a sound was made by each exhausted Incarnate as they were far beyond comprehending such trivial pain.
Teclis swayed for a moment, the pain flooding through his body too much for him to process. He made no cry of pain and simply fell to one side, collapsing onto the floor. His body had practically been reduced to a skeleton. His arms were stumps of bone, his chest had been stripped of flesh and his face was burnt beyond recognition. The rags of his former robes clung to him, parts of them fused to his tortured frame. Only the Staff of Lileath and the War Crown of Saphery were intact though even they had been pitted and blemished by the terrible forces their master had wielded. Only the thin wheezes emanating from the ruined and tortured creature that Teclis had become were any indicator that he was still alive.
Tyrion was the first of the Incarnates to rise to his feet. As he spent the least amount of time tied to a Wind of Magic the strain was reduced somewhat. Even then, the fatigue made his body feel like it was made of lead and every movement sent a lance of pain through his body. Still this did not stop him from limping over to the ruined husk that was Teclis the moment he laid eyes on the remains of his twin.
Teclis could not turn his head but he glanced at his brother as he approached. The stumps that were his arms wriggled slightly as he tried to lift them towards Tyrion. The prince bent down as he reached for Teclis. Carefully lifting Teclis' head and torso, Tyrion cradled his twin.
"I...it," Teclis stuttered as he struggled to speak from ruined lungs and a tortured throat, "it...it...is done."
"Yes brother," Tyrion replied heavily, knowing his brother's words were a statement rather than a question, "it is done."
It...wasn't...for nothing," Teclis said, his voice stronger, "the Rhana Dandra is...over." Tyrion could feel a hint of triumph in his brother's thin voice. "Tyrion," Teclis then said, one of his stumps moving for his brother's arm.
"I'm here brother," Tyrion anxiously replied, grabbing the stump in a firm grasp. Teclis winced as burnt flesh contacted with cold ithilmar.
"Tyrion," Teclis once again said, "can...can you forgive...me? For...Aliathra? For Malekith? For Khaine? For everything...I've...done?" Teclis' voice was barely a whisper by this point and his body was going limp in Tyrion's embrace.
Tyrion was stunned by the question. He had already offered his forgiveness to Teclis once, shortly after his own resurrection and redemption from Khaine with both Alarielle and Malekith as witnesses but he had never truly forgiven his brother. He knew that Teclis understood. Their bond that had existed from birth prevented them from lying to one another. Now at the end of all things his brother was once again asking for forgiveness, sincere forgiveness that only he could grant him.
"I," Tyrion began before pausing, feeling his brother weaken in his arms. Tyrion looked deep into himself as he pondered Teclis' request. Could he ever truly forgive him for what he had done. It took a heartbeat but Tyrion's conflict felt eternal. Finally after reflecting upon his feelings and the actions of his brother he turned to the ruin that was his twin.
"I forgive you," Tyrion said and with that a great weight was lifted from his heart. However at the same time he also felt an emptiness he had never experienced before. Tyrion turned to his brother and saw that he was dead. There was no rattling breath, no slight motion of burnt flesh nor any life or intelligence in Teclis' frozen eyes.
Tyrion continued to hold the remains of his brother close to him as the other Incarnates stirred. The first to awaken was Nagash. The Great Necromancer was the strongest of them and though he had been drained as much as the others his immense power flowed into his immortal body with speed. Still the destroyer of ancient Nehekhara was not foolish. He knew he was as weak as his mortal companions and were he to turn on them they would unite in an instant to smite him with whatever strength they had left to spare. Even if he won he could sense the battle that continued above them. He knew that was a fight he would not survive were he to waste what little power he had on the other Incarnates.
One by one the Incarnates pulled themselves to their feet. The chaos above needed to be dealt with and every one of them had plans for the world. Tyrion lifted the body of his twin, preparing to carry it back for a proper burial. Alarielle, still suffering from the damage to the Weave, struggled to carry her own weight. Tyrion tried to move to attend to her but his brother's body slowed him. To the surprise of anyone who noticed or was concerned it was Malekith who moved to carry the Everqueen, roughly wrapping his arm around her body. Gelt hobbled slightly but seemed to show the most vitality of the group, his mask helping to hide his grimaces of pain.
"Where is the Emperor?" Tyrion looked around the cavern as he noticed one of the Incarnates was not with the rest of the group. He finally found the Incarnate of the Heavens standing on the edge of the chasm that Archaon had fallen into. He was peering down into the darkness, an intense expression on his face.
"I would ask what you are trying to look at," Tyrion remarked as he ambled up to the Emperor's side, a wearily casual tone to his voice, "but I can guess."
"The Everchosen is gone," the Emperor said with a matter-of-fact tone. "It shouldn't be that simple." With that sense of finality the Emperor turned away to join the wary collection of Incarnates. Tyrion spared a glance over the edge of the chasm, pondering the fate of the Everchosen as well. There was a presence down in the darkness but he could not tell what it was. After a slight pause he then turned to join the others as well, carrying the remains of Teclis' body over his shoulder.
The exhausted Incarnates slowly made their way back up the passages out of the vast pit. Many of them eyed one another warily. Nagash led the group though eh did so unintentionally. The Great Necromancer was almost desperate to leave his former allies, though he refused to admit his concern, even to himself.
Behind him came the Emperor and Gelt. The two human Incarnates were weary but still ready for battle. The Emperor felt both the fatigue of his long and arduous battle and the revitalisation of victory and his recovery of Ghal Maraz at the same time. Both of them kept their eyes fixed firmly on Nagash, waiting for any sign of treachery. They did not know how weakened the Great Necromancer was but if he turned on them they would give everything they had to defeat him.
Finally, at the rear, came those who were burdened. Malekith stumbled forward, carrying and oft-times dragging Alarielle at his side. The pair were surrounded by a noticeable aura of distaste at the situation. To Malekith, the exhaustion and weakness he now felt was beyond infuriating. He didn't know exactly why he had decided to support the Everqueen but he knew he needed her still if he were to rule Athel Loren and he didn't dare leave her to be guarded by another. Tyrion, meanwhile, carried his twin's body in silence, occasionally glancing at his companions in front of him but mostly staying silent in his grief.
They finally made it to the lip of the pit to find the battle between the minions of Chaos and the remaining armies of the Incarnates was still raging. Elf, Man and Dwarf all fought viciously against the surviving Warriors of Chaos, Skaven and Beastmen. Though few had truly noticed, the vigour of the Deamons had waned and many were already fading away into their blasphemous realm.
As the passed over the lip and out of the pit they came across the remains of Nagash's Morghast Legions. The foul but regal constructs were strewn about the area, apparently having endured the brunt of the Everchosen's forces that had attempted to reinforce their master. Arkhan was standing behind a thin defensive line, his form battered and unsteady even as he tried to harness his flagging powers. Nagash did not move to recover the bodies that lay around him. He knew he needed to conserve what strength he had and thus he endured having to use his own power and blade alone to strike down his foes in the coming battle.
Around the remains of the Temple of Ulric and the immense opening in the plaza in front of it were the finest soldiers of the Hosts or Order. They had rallied around the pit, holding the line so that their lords did not have to endure enemies from above. The tattered but steadfast survivors of the Reiksguard fought at the front of the united host, their mounts long dead and their battered blades and armour stained black with the corrupted blood of their foes. The remains of the Elven armies had rallied around Malekith's Eternity Guard who fought with a brutal efficiency. The Throng of Metal were by far the fiercest fighters. Having planted their feet and locked their shields they had set about avenging every wrong the enemy had afflicted upon them over the course of the End Times, Gotri Hammerson at their head.
The six surviving Incarnates looked at one another and then at the carnage in front of them. Despite the sacrifices they had made this day the battle was not yet over. As if to prompt his companions, the Emperor raised Ghal Maraz and began to march forward to where his remaining knights struggled to hold the line. Still carrying their burdens and refusing to look at one another, both Tyrion and Malekith raised their blades in turn and strode out to the Elven battle-line. With a wary glance at Nagash, Balthasar Gelt straightened himself and walked towards the Throng he had found himself master of, changing direction slightly as he saw Quicksilver resting behind their battle-line. Finally Nagash made his way forward, drawing Zefet-nebtar and holding it high. He rarely had to fight with the Mortis Blade but now circumstances called for his direct intervention in combat.
With the Incarnates returning to the fray, the course of the battle changed very quickly.
The battle for Middenheim was short but arduous. The confused Chaos and Skaven forces scattered quickly but the losses the Incarnates and their armies had suffered were still horrendous. The final remnants of the Beast WAAAGH also left in scattered tribes as with Grimgor Ironhide's death the Orcs and Ogres found themselves bereft of unifying leadership. Each Incarnate went their separate ways shortly after the battle's end. Nagash was the first to leave, disappearing before any of the other Incarnates could even consider some way of slowing or weakening him. With his departure, the dead once again fell and returned to their rest. Tyrion, Malekith and Alarielle eventually left, heading in the direction of Athel Loren with what was left of their armies, intent on rebuilding the kingdom. The Emperor did not leave at first. Instead he stood over the ruins of Middenheim and pondered the future. The empire he had built long ago was a ruin but there were survivors. He could rebuild but it would be arduous, Chaos had spread deep into the lands he had ruled and it would require blood and toil to cleanse them. Balthasar Gelt stood beside him, prepared to stand beside the lord he served no matter what. His guilt still drove him but it had now been joined by a renewed optimism that victory had given him.
With the battle over the world changed once again.
The effect of the closing of the rift was not felt instantaneously. However it took only a few seconds for the Winds of Magic to begin to ebb once again. The power of Chaos waned as the Winds of Magic calmed. To the Daemons that now roamed the world the change was far too abrupt. What started as slight weakening of their power quickly turned into the rapid and irreversible disintegration of their physical forms. The Daemonic Legions vanished.
The followers of Chaos were the next to feel the change in the Winds of Magic. The blasphemous power that had invigorated them since the beginning of the End Times was stolen from them. Suddenly weakened the confused worshippers of the Dark Gods were forced back by the surviving forces of order.
In Skavenblight the Verminlords were consumed by the very shadows they lurked within and returned to the realm they had originated from. Bereft of their patronage the various warlords quickly fell to recriminating one another. Assassination attempts beyond count took place, enriching Clan Eshin more than ever before. Grey Seer Thanquol was especially troubled since, as much as he hated to admit it, his new position on the Council of Thirteen was almost completely a result of Skreech Verminking's support. Now that the Verminlord was gone and as difficult to summon as Verminlords had always been before the End Times, he was concerned. He never let it show of course and simply returned to his usual posturing. Meanwhile the Under Empire turned on itself as the balance of power shifted dramatically once again.
In a realm beyond comprehension four beings argued with one another. A plan that had been prepared for eternities beyond count had been ruined. Argument turned to recrimination and blame and soon they turned on one another. The loose alliance that had almost led the world to ruin was over and the Realm of Chaos returned to what it had always been. Each god returned to their specific realm to ponder their failure and exercise their rage on anything hapless and unfortunate enough to catch their attention.
Khorne tore his own realm apart as he raged, his carnage spilling over into the realms of his brothers. His defeat was humiliating even though the slaughter had pleased and empowered him. His armies were in chaos as he punished and demoted those who had failed him but the world now presented completely new chances for slaughter and war.
Tzeentch's thoughts fermented and stewed as he contemplated what had happened. His failure was humiliating in a way that no mortal being could comprehend. However the phyrric victory that the forces of order had won now presented countless new possibilities. The world had changed and become interesting again and it was up to him to exploit it.
Nurgle wandered through his gardens, his thoughts disturbed by the results of the failed End Times. The theft of his prized Poxofulcrum infuriated him as much as the prospect of defeat did for Khorne. Out of all of his brother gods he felt like he had lost the most. However he was, at heart, a worker and tinkerer. The chance to experiment was still too strong for him to ignore and he turned his attention back to the prospect of concocting new contagions to inflict upon the mortal world.
Slaanesh was the most torn of the Dark Gods. He was furious that his followers had failed him in such a boring and unfulfilled fashion. Many of them had been punished in manners that prevented even the most pleasure addled Daemon from enjoying the experience. However another part was relieved for he held the mortal world in some regard and he enthusiastically contemplated the many possibilities and experiences the world would continue to present.