CHAPTER TWO
The screams had died on the icy wind many hours ago, just as their owners had. The bodies were now strewn in the white snow, the red of their blood turning to a sticky mess, then to crystals, and finally a solid, slippery plate.
With a crackle and roar, the last buildings of Volksgrad were put to the torch. Everything that had survived the assault was either destroyed by marauding Norscans or else claimed as a bloody prize that had sparked even a few fights among rivals in the Warhost. Even now, bands of warriors were jealously guarding the last women and children that had escaped the massacre and stood shivering in the frosty air. They may have been Kislevites, but nothing could have prepared them for the hordes of the apocalypse.
Archaon saw how they all cringed and shied away, even his own men, as he rode into the village atop Droghur. The daemonic horse was a sight to behold, seemingly born out of the darkest part of a smouldering furnace, running with flickers of flame, each step sizzling and liquifying the snow with the striking of sparks. But perhaps the reason for their fear was the one who rode in the saddle of such a beast, the one who could control such a terror.
The last of the innocents huddled together, no doubt expecting at any moment for this daemon in man's shape to leap off his horse and tear through them with the sword. Archaon felt no pity as he cast a gaze across them. Kislevites were arrogant, harsh, haughty people. He had no fond memories of them from the last time he passed through their land. It was appropriate to see all conceit burned out of them, torn from them to bleed in the snow with their friends, countrymen, fathers, brothers, sons. Whatever fate his warriors had planned for them was as fair as the fate the world must face.
Here and there, once or twice as he passed, he saw rage burning deep within the eyes of some youth, forging the iron of revenge and murder at the fiery core of their soul. They would all die someday before their silent vows were fulfilled. Perhaps in a useless act of defiance. Perhaps of cold or dehydration or starvation. Perhaps killed for sport.
No. They would all die long before that. Maybe it was a small mercy, that Archaon knew he would grant them that. There would be no reason for them to fester away for years, feeding the already glutted Blood God with their evil thoughts. All would be consumed before that.
At the edge of the village, a horseman and a daemon awaited him. On one side, his lieutenant, Szalamund, an imposing figure, even if infinitely inferior when beside Archaon. On the other, the daemon Kairos Fateweaver, who flapped his wings in a violent motion that sent his deep blue feathers shimmering across his body.
"On to Praag," Archaon declared as he drew alongside his two advisers.
In his mind, Pawns shifted in the far east and the far west. But here, in the centre of the board, the hammer blow was falling.
The walls of Praag crumbled behind them, the borders of that long-suffering city unable to stand up to this newest and greatest of attacks. But the pillars of smoke were still on the rear horizon when Archaon drew up Droghur to a halt. A massive army had gathered on the plain before them, the hosts of the Ice Queen of Kislev, Tzarina Katarin. Thousands of Kossars, Streltzi, tipped by the elite Ice Guard, flanked by the infamous Winged Lancers and Bear Riders. Momentous, though this occasion may have been, Archaon found his furious gaze drawn towards what was gathered on the wing of the Ice Guard.
"Sound the halt," he ordered, and the herald sent three baritone notes soaring from his horn with such force that an untrained man attempting such a feat would have ruptured his lungs.
As the horde ground to a stop, Archaon turned to the blue, avian daemon at his side. "They call you the Oracle of Tzeentch. You foresee the past and the future, but evidently not this."
Kairos' two heads craned towards the enemy army, in a move that was largely for show. The daemon was blind to happenings in the present.
"Their leader is more stupid than we thought," the twin voices hissed in unison. "What sane Queen would seek to engage a host of our size on a field of equal footing?"
"I do not care for their dispositions." Archaon cast a hand towards the laughably neat squares of infantry arrayed in opposition to them. "Tell me why there are Empire troops, Empire formations, and Empire banners this far north."
The green-eyed head tilted in his direction. "Perhaps they were warned?"
"Perhaps Be'lakor has been too over-zealous in his campaign, and given away the plan?" the orange-eyed one chimed in.
"Be'lakor knows his part well," Archaon growled. "Better than you, evidently."
The orange-eyed head clacked its beak at him. But the green-eyed one began to twist its head in unnatural ways, the lights of a thousand futures visiting themselves unto it.
As this ritual processed, Szalamund shifted in his saddle. "The banners look to be Elector Province heraldry. I would say this is an advance party, sent ahead to–"
He was interrupted as the daemon's green-eyed head spoke.
"Perhaps . . . the Elf Mage has warned them," it said. "He is . . . interfering."
Both heads gave a great snarl. Then they spoke in unison again.
"The past is resolved. The future is in motion. What has happened cannot be undone. The plan must accelerate, before our foes can all unite."
Not for the first time, Archaon wondered if it would be better to kill the daemon now. A lot of trouble would be saved. The loss of such a powerful spellcaster would be a setback, but only a temporary one.
Instead of yielding to these instincts, he set his heels into Droghur's side and galloped away, down along the columns of grim Norscans and rumbling daemons. He wheeled the mount from hell around and reigned in at the front of his army.
The Slayer of Kings, his great sword coated in roaring flame, leapt into his hand, and he held it high as Droghur reared up.
"Hear me, armies of the north!" His voice went rolling across the lines. "Kislev is but the first step on our great campaign of destruction and devastation, that shall be inflicted upon the southern realms. Who is this Ice Witch to think she can put a stop to our crusade? Her soul is worth nought, and soon it will be sent screaming unto the True Gods that she rejects. Along with all the fools who stand at her side!"
With these words, he kicked Droghur, and they leapt forward together. From behind came the rumble of the thousands as they joined the charge. The crackle of the Winds of Magic being whipped up into a tempest sounded in Archaon's ears, louder with every step towards the enemy lines.
He could feel the fear from the thousands before him, the terror at the sight of the daemonic, barbarian army that came only to burn their towns and kill every last one of them. But this fear did not control them yet. Rifles, pistols, bows, and artillery were all lowered, straightened in aim towards the closest enemy. A thunderous roar drowned everything else out as a thousand projectiles flew towards Archaon.
And a thousand projectiles flew past him. Or melted and sizzled upon Droghur's skin. Or broke upon the invulnerable Armour of Morkar, invincible to all but the most powerful and blessed of attacks. The wave of fear began to build amongst the mortal foes. More weapons were frantically directed towards him.
He saw particles of ice coalesce around the Tzarina's position, and shine a deep blue. The ground beneath Droghur's feet turned to a sheet of slippery ice, in a futile attempt to slow the beast down. The sheet was already melting and sizzling beneath the hooves, just as quickly as the snow had.
"Too late," Archaon said aloud, as he lifted his sword up. The fire along its length turned as bright as the sun for just a moment.
At his call, a massive flaming skull appeared amidst the Kislevite lines. The fire bathed them from above, catching on fur and beards and skin. The gargantuan head gnawed its way throughout the frontline, sending men scrambling away, screaming and fleeing like rats before the flames that enveloped them. It washed across the legendary Ice Guard, and they shrivelled and melted like their namesake. In its wake, it left a barren gap in the lines, held only by the scattered statues of ash that signalled the end of another wretched human, and a vast empty patch of burnt earth; the first time the ground here had been exposed to the open air for years.
Into this breach, Archaon rode Droghur, heedless of the residual flames that still clung desperately to whatever fuel they could find. The second line of Kislevites were already bracing, readying their melee weapons to face him.
It would be utterly in vain. Droghur ploughed into the line, sending Kossars scattering like leaves kicked in autumn. Archaon swung the Slayer of Kings, and half a dozen men fell with each stroke of the blade. Behind, he heard the roar as his warhost charged in.
Szalamund was shouting his battle cry. "Swords of the Everchosen! Death to the World!"
Bursts of blue and pink light shone across the sky as Kairos went to work, weaving magic and spells.
Archaon narrowed his focus, narrowed it until there was only one person he could see. A tall woman in a dress of ice, seated upon a horse that looked hewn from a glacier and breathed the permafrost. Her hands glowed with the pale blue orbs of pure light as she summoned massive icicles into the Chaos lines and sent clouds of frostbitten snow down. From toe to the tip of her crown, she seemed carved from the ice of her country.
And now she saw him. Her hands moved, preparing to cast her pitiful magic towards him.
A blast of pink fire carved through the lines of Kislevites around Archaon, forming a wedge that started at Droghur's hooves and carried almost all the way to the Tzarina.
Archaon rode forward onto the flames, and Droghur galloped atop them, as if the sea of fire was a solid surface. As he came close, he saw the first moment of hesitation and trepidation, lurking beneath the frozen mask of the Ice Queen's face. She drew a sword of the purest ice, that glowed blue like her magics. In legends, it was said that even the smallest cut would prove fatal, and any man to wield it would be frozen unto death. Fire met ice, as the Slayer of Kings sliced towards her, and she parried the daemonic weapon. The impact was heard by all on that battlefield.
The ice sword darted around like a tongue of blue fire, anxious to taste of his lifeforce. Archaon lifted his shield to parry over his back as he wheeled Droghur around. The next stroke of his sword beheaded two Tzar Guardsmen who leapt to their queen's defence. Giving a shout, Katarin lunged, and her sword glanced off the horned helm, the Crown of Domination. She was lightning fast, drawing back before Archaon even had the chance to exploit her exposed side.
At the lightest touch from her heel, the pale horse beneath her suddenly leapt forward at a gallop, and amidst the sound of battle, they went ploughing into the rear of the Kislevite lines. Archaon charged Droghur after the fleeing steed, driving the daemon to the limit to keep up. The Ice Queen sent a powerful blast of snow and sleet in his direction, which he only just managed to dodge by half-sliding off the saddle for just a moment before swinging back.
Men and daemons alike were falling under the hooves, crushed and mangled beyond recognition, served a truly unexpected and cruel fate. As Droghur drew level with the horse, Archaon swung his sword again, but it was a stroke mistimed. The ice sword stabbed towards his eye. When the Slayer of Kings came up to parry, it was unbidden, as if the soul of the great daemon bound within had decided at this moment to defend the one who wielded it. Archaon was so surprised he almost forgot everything; the fighting that surrounded him on all sides, the wildly careening mount beneath him, and the cold woman before him. Almost.
Archaon cast his shield aside, daring and tempting her wrath, and swung again. The two swords danced and clashed with each other; one of fire, one of ice. The Tzarina's weapon seemed to project an aura of frostbite around it. Every time it came close to penetrating his guard and striking his armour, he felt the fires of his soul dim for a moment. But the Slayer of Kings would not be dimmed. Every time he brought it close to chopping a limb off the queen, he saw sweat run down her face, which quickly froze as soon as the weapon retreated. It looked like she was crying tears of ice, that shone with crystal brilliance with every flash of flame or unearthly light from the battlefield.
"Weep for your country, Witch," Archaon said. "For I will burn it."
She opened her mouth to respond, but he gave her no chance. The Tzarina had to dodge away from the massive overhead strike. The sword bit deep into the neck of her horse, and when Archaon wrenched it free, the steed collapsed from the front, spinning over and casting the Ice Queen away. The body slid under Droghur's hooves, and the daemon mount stumbled in turn, throwing its rider.
Archaon clung grimly to the Slayer of Kings, the iron pieces of his gauntlet twisting and bending as the world spun overhead. First the ground was above, then the sky, then he hit the snow, right next to the Ice Queen of Kizlev.
The Lord of the End Times stood first. Katarina saw him rise up like a winged frost wyrm chasing lesser inhabitants of the sky up to its preferred hunting grounds of the snow filled clouds.
She could feel nothing. For the first time, the chill of her homeland did not embrace her, did not caress her with the harsh but benevolent promises and care of Ursun.
She could not move. She wondered what injuries she had sustained in the crash, but she could not check. Every order she gave to her body was countermanded; every signal blocked from reaching even the smallest finger.
All sound was dulled; the screams of the dying, the clash of weapons, the blaze of magic, the rush of the ice wind, all was gone. Except for the crunch of the Three Eyed King's boots in the snow.
She could do little more than watch, and it galled her to no end. Her sword lay within arm's reach. If only she could shift anything towards it.
The Herald of the Apocalypse loomed overhead, the flaming sword of unholy power in his hand.
"Your army has fallen." If ever there was a voice that formed the personification of violence, here it was. "Your stand here was futile. None will remember it, even if your world was not already doomed."
He lifted up the sword, two hands on the grip, the point aimed right for her eye.
In those last moments, part of her body finally responded. With a flicker, both eyelids snapped shut. Katarina was outraged. How dare her body betray her now, at the end, by not allowing her to show her fearlessness to her slayer.
Something appeared in the darkness. A bear of snow and blue magic lay before her, upon a floor of carved and marked stone. It coughed, like a sick man in the last years of his life, plagued with no comfort in those final days.
"Child." This voice was as deep as the Everchosen's, but there was no anger, nor any contempt within. And yet, it wavered and caught, the sound of consumption-filled lungs.
"Ursun," she said, speech suddenly returned. She was shocked. The god of her people, the god of all Kislev, the one whose roar heralded the end of winter. Beaten, defeated, sick, dying.
"You have fought valiantly and selflessly. A true daughter of Kislev. You have guided her better than many of your fore-bearers in its darkest days. Its last days."
Already, the image blurred before her eyes, as if she was looking through a wall of ice. "Is what you say true? Is Kislev doomed? Is the world doomed?"
"The path ahead is not clear." The bear god's voice faded, yet the sorrow was tangible. "I cannot see it. But I fear this is truly the end of everything. The death of gods, the fall of worlds."
Archaon twisted his sword, right before he yanked it from the body. It was an old habit, one that predated his ascension to Everchosen, and one of the few that had carried over. Lifting his head, he saw the battle raging on all around, aside from in this strange clearing amidst the vortex of chaos.
Someone rode up from behind. The voice of Szalamund was lifted up.
"The Ice Witch is dead!"
The cry was taken up by all those around, spreading from man to daemon. It became a battlecry, a chant for the warhost as they surged forward against the surviving Kislevites and soldiers of the Empire. Soon, the forces of order broke, then fled, cut down by the horrors behind them, and the horrors that rode among them on horseback. Artillery was abandoned, weapons were thrown down in the face of the enemy. Foolish officers bellowed for their men to return to the fight, the moment before they themselves were trampled down.
Through it all, Archaon bore silent witness to the victory, while the screams died on the wind, and the blood froze in the snow.