CHAPTER SIX
Archaon slewed Droghur around, and beheld the one who had intruded upon the duel. He was seated upon a massive decomposing dragon, with scales of reddish black, holes in its wings, and dead eyes glowing in its exposed skull. He wore sharp armour that reflected a dull light, even though its surface was of the most pitch black. His skin was purple, his features aquiline, his teeth pointed, his shoulder-length hair stringy and pale, his cheeks and nose rotted.
So. The rumours were true then. Nagash had indeed returned, and with him, the chiefest and most terrifying vampyric and undead lords to have walked this earth.
Vlad von Carstein. Vampire lord of Sylvania. The villain of every fairytale in the Empire, the name that nannies used to keep their disorderly charges in line.
"Now, boy," he said, the sword in his hand swishing and biting at the air. "We shall see who truly deserves to be ruler of this land."
"My forefathers defeated you and wiped out your foul kind," the Emperor shouted. "I will do the same!"
"Foolish child," von Carstein said with a grimace-like smile.
The Emperor's griffon leapt into the air, its claws up, unsettled by the sudden arrival of this larger predator and its rider. The vampire's dragon launched after it, the fetid air from under its wings washing in all directions. As he passed, he gave one more command.
"Deal with the Everchosen."
Archaon turned again, and there was another zombie dragon, this one clinging to the edge of the wall-top pathway. Another vampire sat atop it, this one in blood red armour. He recognised this one as well from legend; Walach Harkon, leader of the Blood Knights, mocker of the many chivalrous orders with his twisted brotherhood.
Archaon's pride burned to a powerful flame with this injury. How dare he be left for an underling to deal with. He was the Everchosen of Chaos. Blessed by the Ruinous Powers. Served by all Their servants.
With a kick, Droghur charged forward, and slipped right past the vampiric knight and his dragon mount, which snapped at the daemon horse as it flew past. There was no need to fight these interfering, weak puppets when the prize lay within grasping. He heard the zombie dragon screeching and scrabbling at the stonework as it fought after him, driven mad by the merciless orders of its master. Its unnatural breath surged over him, as it clawed in for another snap at him. Almost carelessly, he swung the Slayer of Kings around behind his back, and half of the dragon's skull was lanced off, driving it into a temporary retreat.
A great window of stained glass stood on the front of the cathedral. In vibrant and unreasonable colours, the fierce and furious shape and figure of Magnus the Pious was displayed, the namesake of this fortress, the Emperor who had stood, two-hundred years ago, against the last Everchosen. Only two halberdiers stood before the great oak doors that barred access to the cathedral. Archaon had neither the time nor the desire to fight them. Their bodies charred and shrivelled before him, the halberds clattering to the ground. The timber entrance likewise burned; the stonework portal blackening and the metal frames melting.
Inside was filled with a mystical glow, yet the recesses and extremities of the gargantuan atrium were cast into shadow. Eight mighty colonnades filled the hall, dividing it and redividing it and obscuring what lay behind. A circle of pure light stood on the tiled floor near the centre of the room, written with crisscrossing lines and script that could not be read, lest the winds of magic split the skull and pour forth from within. It was an exact copy of the symbol that hung upon the north side of the Bastion, that Archaon knew Kairos to be attacking at this very moment. Arranged around the circle were thirteen wizards and priests, kneeling almost in supplication, their faces craned towards the ceiling and glowing with pale powerful aura that distorted their features. Others stood or sat around, mages whose duties were not necessary for the present, awaiting their chance to take over. Six bodies lay on the floor, their skulls and faces smashed and scored with a pinkish tinge; wizards who had been destroyed by the very ritual they fought to maintain and the stress placed upon it by the magical attack on the other side of the wall.
All eyes turned to Archaon, except for those who were committed to the ritual. A couple of spells of defence and offence were starting to weave as the mages perceived this newest threat. In much the same moment Archaon charged forward, the wall above his head exploded. The stained glass window shattered, a fragment with Magnus's stern face hurdled down and impaled an unfortunate wizard, the splintered rocks fell, and Walach Harkon's dragon launched across the chamber. Its wings and shoulders slammed against two colonnades and knocked them down as it writhed. Mages were crushed in the debris, and Archaon plunged into the centre of the ritual circle.
The Slayer of Kings swung like the hand on a timepiece, gyrating in a clean circuit that cut the throat of every wizard knelt there. The ritual circle flickered and died in an instant. A rumble sounded from somewhere beyond the walls of the cathedral, and the roof began to come down.
Harkon's zombie dragon scrambled its way down the columns, vainly trying to snap at Archaon with half a jaw as he rode from the chamber. It hit the tiles behind, fragmenting them, and bodily forced through the waterfall of falling masonry. Its neck extended, its claws lashed, but only its head got free before the roof caved in completely and crushed the dragon in the rubble. Harkon leapt from the saddle, over his mount's neck, and landed in a roll that placed him amidst the ruin of the door and its last guardians. The plate of armour over his shoulder caught on one of the discarded halberds, and the hook found its way underneath and scratched deep.
He winced and groaned as he stood up, feeling the trickle of accursed blood over his skin, wondering if he would be able to use the sword or lance with such an injury. It was a worry he needed not considered, as he straightened up into the path of the Slayer of Kings. His head hit the stone with a thump and sightless eyes rolling back.
Archaon's return swing sliced into the decapitated body's heart before it could fold on itself and collapse. Only when he was sure that the vampire knight would not return to unlife, he let the corpse fall. Turning, he saw the rout of his beastmen army, driven almost to the walls of Castle Magnus. They were so close now that he could make out individual soldiers, and emblems on fluttering banners. He looked in vain for Szalsamund and the Swords of Chaos, but he could not find them amid the scrum of battle. The sound of the clash of steel drew his eyes upwards, and he saw the Emperor and von Carstein wheeling in the air, trading blows in fury. Both were exhausted, their faces were drawn, von Carstein kept active only by the necromantic energies he possessed, and the Emperor securing respite every time they broke apart. Archaon's gaze fell low, and at the hooves of Droghur, he saw the halberd.
A chance came to him, a possibility suggested, perhaps one of the many futures whispered by the Eye of Sheerian. He sheathed his sword and snatched up the halberd. It was never intended for ranged combat, forged to be pointed at a foe until they impaled themselves upon it, or swiped at a neck. But it would suffice for his purpose.
"Gods of Chaos," he chanted. "Hear my prayer. Guide this bolt, and may it find its mark."
With a roar, he hurtled the halberd like a javelin, as hard as he could, all the force of his muscles behind the throw. As it left his hand, it crackled and blazed with eldritch energies, blessed with ruinous power. It flew straight and true, straighter and truer than any thrown halberd would. Almost too fast to discern, it slipped under the wing of the zombie dragon, past the head of the griffon, and smashed into the Emperor's breastplate. The pointed tip penetrated deep,and Karl Franz let out a gasp.
He swayed once, twice, trying to stay upright, but the pain of the injury and the weight of the weapon sticking out of his chest was too much for even him. He slid sideways, and down he fell, a shining star of silver, the plumage of his helm and the flap of his cape both fluttering like feathers. The halberd stuck out at a right angle, and his fall looked like a bird of the airs brought low by a hunter's arrow.
The griffon gave an agonising screech, and dived after its master, desperate to catch him before his body was broken on the ground.
Vlad von Carstein sat in his saddle for a long time, in silence and shock. One moment, the Emperor had been swinging in for another clash of swords. The next, the vampire stood as the victor, his foe laid low by another. His eyes searched, and met those of the Everchosen, and Archaon beheld the concern therein.
And the Bastion exploded.
The first shock of the dead rising had worn off. Many had fallen though, dragged down by comrades and friends who stood up from the mud with mouths agape, blood still dripping from the mortal wounds which had felled them only minutes before. The Imperial army had dissolved into chaos, each unit separated from another by the tide of undead, and a re-surging charge of beastmen smelling blood and weakness. But as the shock and fear wore off, captains began to reassert control, artillery began to boom with precision again, and the frontline reformed. The briefest of respite came when the undead attacked the beastmen, splitting the battlefield into a wild, three-way melee in which fingernails were as effective as daggers in downing an enemy.
Helborg tried to maintain a cool head, and a clean picture of the tactical situation, yet the army constantly teetered on the brink of collapse. Some men had outright fled, and though most of these had returned, it was a telling sign. The first cracks had appeared.
"Reiksmarshal, sir!" came a shout. Helborg pulled his sword from the raging minotaur's skull and turned. A knight pointed his lance towards Castle Magnus. "The ritual, sir!"
Even as Helborg looked, the roof of the cathedral came down. The flying buttresses snapped like burning string, the archway created by the destruction of Magnus's grand glass portrait collapsed inwards, and dust blasted out every opening and window. The beam of magic shrivelled and melted away, from the bottom all the way to the top of the Bastion, in paradoxical reverse of a stream of water from a fountain as it is cut off.
Was it his imagination, or was the titanic wall shivering? Were fissures forming, was it already falling apart? Despite all their sacrifice, all their effort, would it prove to be in vain at this last moment?
A flicker of gold caught his eye, and there was Deathclaw, the Emperor seated atop, diving and looping in the air as they engaged with a putrefied dragon and its necromantic rider. The griffon was barely half the size of the larger beast, but it held its own against the larger monster, and clawed away chunks of ruined flesh. The Emperor kept his foe's sword at bay every time their weapons crossed, and his strikes came closer and closer to slaying the vampire lord.
Helborg lifted his sword and pointed towards the distant duel. "Look, lads! The Emperor! He fights for you!"
Thousands of eyes searched skywards at the command of their general. Those who were not engaged in combat lifted and shook their weapons.
"The Emperor! For the Emperor!"
And then it happened. Something hit the Emperor. Something long and thin that skewered him in the chest. Helborg felt something tear through his heart in the same moment. He clawed open his visor and peered down, but there was no weapon, no injury. Only the race of his heartbeat in his ears.
The Emperor toppled off Deathclaw, and plunged down, his limbs limp, spinning in the air. He looked too small, too tiny to be the man who united the Empire and held the reigns of power with justice and duty. Deathclaw dived after his master, but it was too late, Helborg knew. Even at full speed, the fastest dive, the noble creature would never catch up to the falling body.
A cry went up. A cry of sorrow, a cry of fear, a cry of hopelessness. Many had seen the fall, and for all of them, that would be the moment they remembered for the rest of their lives.
Then came the sound of stone splitting, a loud crack that made the very air shake. A section of the Bastion, easily further across than a handgun could shoot, collapsed in a rumble. Chunks of stone rolled down in an avalanche of epic proportions, not a single piece smaller than a full-sized tavern or a country mansion. The debris piled up beside Castle Magnus, making the west wall give way under the weight. Each piece to be sent skipping across the battlefield crushed hundreds in its wake, though the majority of the ruin sank to the earth with a quake that could be felt as far away as Averheim. A wave of dust swept across the field, surrounding each man and beast with a cocoon of choking clouds. Within moments, however, the dust cleared, the magic-tainted billow of chalk sinking to the ground, and the breaching of the Bastion was complete.
Through the gap flew a blue, twin-headed winged creature bearing a staff. Purple fire and aqua bolts were already raining from the sky in its wake, striking and consuming vast sections of the battle. Massive floating eyes were conjured and sent magic down upon unfortunate men caught in their gazes.
A roaring, inarticulate battlecry shuddered through the great fissure, and a horde of axe-wielding marauders and gibbering demons appeared upon the pile of rumbled rocks, swarming across the uneven landscape towards their prey. Another winged creature joined the first, this one a horned human with a spear. She swooped low and impaled eight men upon the length, the lust of battle glowing all over her.
The beastmen lifted up a guttural growl and counterattacked, pouring over exhausted Imperial soldiers.
"Orders, sir?"
Helborg turned to the herald, and found fear flooding the face of the man. The screams of the apocalypse grew louder as Chaos Furies swept overhead.
"The battle is lost. Sound the retreat. Now!"
The herald lifted a trumpet to his lips and blew the notes that every soldier both loves and despises. Discipline barely held as the order was carried out. Many men broke and fled headlong, but most units held together, the rear lines walking backwards to ward off any pursuers. Artillery captains hollered for horses to be brought to tow away their precious cannons, mortars, and rocket batteries. Archers and handgunners fired off a couple of final volleys before joining the withdrawal. Knights circled in the rearguard, keeping the enemy at bay with the threat of their charge.
Not everyone escaped. Many were separated from their fellows and left behind, massacred by the first enemy to come across them. Some units could not withdraw, and were soon surrounded, their men fighting back to back until the last of them fell, entire companies slaughtered upon a single knoll. Sometimes, the bodies piled under such last stands until they formed artificial mounds, masses of both tainted and pure flesh. Ponderous and slow-moving artillery were overrun. Knights were pulled from their horses by fanatical northmen and maniacal demons.
Helborg bore witness to the destruction of the single steam tank they had brought with them, the Deliverance. Once piloted by the great Emperor Magnus, her history was long and valiant, only to be cut short on this battlefield. Her wheels bogged in the churned-up mud, and she fell behind the army before she could pull free. Hundreds of enemies enveloped her, and though her sharp steel prow and steam cannons slaughtered dozens, many more climbed atop and clung to the hull. Soon, the hatches were torn open and the first of the crew hauled out, to be dismembered and barbarically slaughtered. Before she could be taken as a trophy, her engine detonated and she exploded in a blast of steam and shrapnel which scalded and sliced all those who still crowded around, a final tally added to the machine's impressive kill count.
The final act of defiance on a field of slaughter.
Archaon strode across the battlefield. There were no natural sounds to be heard, not even the groan of wounded nor the caw of carrion birds feeding upon the dead. Every wounded man was butchered and looted, all the ravens and crows chased away by squabbling Chaos Furies which now shrieked and fussed around the largest piles of the slain.
No attempt had been made to clear or clean the field. Spears, banners, and arrow shafts stood vertical amidst the carpet of dead. Those who worshipped a single Chaos God had swept across the area once the battle had finished, each honouring their patron in different fashion. Worshippers of Khorne took the heads. Worshippers of Nurgle wallowed and tallied the diseases festering in the filth and maggots and rot flies. Worshippers of Tzeentch siphoned the remnants of magical energies from the bodies. And worshippers of Slaanesh... well, it was better not to think about what they did.
As the Empire had withdrawn, so did the Undead. The resurrected zombies had shuddered as the necromantic spells abandoned them, and they collapsed back to the corpses from which they had been plucked. The few vampiric knights had vanished to the south, dwindling into specks of red on the horizon. Of Vlad von Carstein, no sign had been seen, though Archaon was certain the ancient lord had fled the field.
A horse emerged from the gloom, a Chaos Champion seated astride it. Within the ornate armour, something unnatural writhed. A green tentacle protruded from the gap in the plating near the warrior's hip, and a blue one waggled from his shoulder. It was Count Mordrek the Damned, and in his wake shuffled a sizeable horde of Chaos Spawn, the corrupted and twisted victims of his weapon.
"The Imperial army continues to withdraw southwards. Shall we set off in pursuit?"
Archaon shook his head. "No need. They have been soundly beaten today, and while our forces celebrate, theirs will lose heart and melt away. We shall set out in two days."
The count nodded, but something in the way his mutations twitched made it clear he was displeased.
"Has anyone found the Emperor's body?" Archaon asked.
"Not yet."
"Keep the search going. We will depart on the day after tomorrow regardless of what happens, but I will feel more comfortable if we carry the Emperor's head before us on a pike."
The count nodded again, before moving off, the shambling horrors following after like a train of children following one who enamours them.
Amidst the mist and smoke that wafted across the field, one banner stood tall above the others. Archaon recognised this one above the others; the eight-pointed star, the crude rendition of the Crown of Domination and Eye of Sheerian. The ensign of the Swords of Chaos. They were gathered at its foot, standing in a circle, looking inwards at something their wall of armour and northern furs concealed.
They turned as Archaon approached and faced him, their armour scored and bloody, numbers drastically reduced. He wondered how many had fallen, how many would need to be replaced before the Swords were up to full strength again. Their weapons came up in salute, and they parted, revealing what lay at the base of the banner.
"My Lord." Szalamund attempted to prop himself up on his elbows, but even this effort seemed too much. His hands clawed weakly at the dirt, and fresh blood drained through the soaked bandages covering a slit on his side.
Archaon stood in silence.
"The enemy has been driven from the field. I will pursue them. A short rest is all I need."
The Everchosen went to one knee at the side of his chief lieutenant. A single glance at the wound was all he needed to know. He briefly considered praying to the Chaos Gods. But what would that achieve? They would bring him back as a daemon, as a thrall to their rule and control. They would strip him of loyalty, turn him into another power-hungry fool under their domination. There were already too many of those.
"When you are ready, join us again."
The champion of Chaos nodded once, before his head and shoulders slumped, his hands relaxing, and a last spurt of blood leaking from the injury.
Archaon reached forward and took hold of the iron visor. It came off easily enough, and he looked upon a face he had not seen for a hundred years. The eyes were shut. Cracks of power ran up the neck from somewhere indiscernible, the glow fading now. Somehow, it looked serene, calm, peaceful; so completely unlike the life that had been lived. He had been worried he would not recognise the features, whether Chaotic taint or age would twist it beyond all memory and recall.
He stood up. "Cremate him. Give him all the rites and honour him."
The Swords nodded in mute, terrified silence. He gave them no further heed, but walked away, the fearsome banner and thrice cursed scene dwindling into distance. Yet the feeling was not dulled. Despite all the curses and blessings of the ruinous powers, the perils, snares, hatred. Despite all that, he felt a tiny crack form deep within. A crack that could never be shined out, would never be covered.