CHAPTER FIVE

Archaon could hear the alarm bells ringing out from across the field. Before him lay a great castle, nestled at the foot of the Bastion, crouched like an offending boil amid folds of fat, its walls and structures melded into the soaring magical stonework. The towers scrambled up the smooth face, all the way to a massive cathedral-like structure halfway up, that glowed from inside with golden, blue, orange, and green light. It was there that the mages and the priests of the Empire gave their power in a never-ending ritual to keep this section of the wall upright. A vertical stream of magical energy blazed from the pinnacle of the cathedral, and separated near the top of the wall, spreading out and dissipating across the leagues and leagues of stone that stretched on forever.

Movement shimmered on the battlements, as the guards and soldiers panicked and ran to take up defensive positions. They were unprepared, never expecting an attack to come from this direction, deluded into thinking the Bastion would keep them protected from all evils. They had not the care to remember the very evil that already infested their land. And now they would pay the price for that foolishness.

There would be no stopping the horde of beastmen that had come to feast upon the flesh of the defenders. They bellowed and roared, the bloodlust up, while the Swords of Chaos sat in menacing silence on their horses.

"Send the signal," Archaon commanded, and a mage sent a burst of orange light up into the air. It tore the clouds asunder, and sent them rippling in all directions, corrupting and tainting them into the same terrifying colour. A glow of fire-orange haze covered the field and the Bastion.

Archaon drew the Slayer of Kings, and pointed its tip towards the castle. "Charge!"

The horde leapt forward, thundering across the ground. The Swords of Chaos galloped forward, weapons in hand, battlecries launching from hundreds of throats.

"Swords of the Everchosen! Death to the World!"

The blaze of orange light that so coloured the clouds flashed far, illuminating the lines of the castle and sending shadows fleeing into the deepest crevasses. Its fingers reached through every gap in the stonework, revealing its presence to all without exception. And there was only one being that did not feel fear at the sight.

From deep within a fortified archery post that was empty of any Imperial soldiers, the Changeling felt excitement. Now was the time to begin the chaos. Spying would cease; the true trickery would be ascendant. He coalesced his four hands together, and in the palms sat a small cloud of dust motes that flickered blue and then pink alternatively.

"Go forth, my children," he whispered with a hiss. There came the sound of a breath from under the hood, and the motes went flying away, out through the narrow archery slit, out to fulfil a darker purpose.

A glow of blue filled the room for just a moment, and then an armoured man stood alone. The Imperial Captain cut an imposing figure as he barged out the door and into the beyond, where a squad of infantry were just rushing past on the way to the walls.

"Forget the walls!" the captain roared. "They have agents inside! The armoury has already fallen! To me, men, to me!"

The infantry heard the commanding voice and saw the polished, prestigious armour, and they reacted as they had long been conditioned to. The captain led them on a headlong charge, deeper into the maze of the castle interior.

From behind his well-crafted disguise, the Changeling laughed silently.

The burst of orange and the glow of fire reflected in the blind eyes of Kairos Fateweaver as he stood on the north side of the Bastion. Others stood with him; Wulfric, Valkia, other champions of Chaos, and an uncounted gathering of fallen mages. This many servants of the Ruinous Powers, each one versed in evil magics and lores of darkness, had not been gathered in the world since time innumerable and immemorable, but visible even unto one head of this Greater Daemon of Tzeentch.

"The signal," the other head spoke aloud. "We attack."

The Winds of Magic crackled and boiled as each magician drew upon all the resources in this corner of the world. Spells were formed, snow was whipped up and blasted away, spinning vortexes struck out, lightning flashed, unlucky bystanders were incinerated. Much of the warhost fell back from the awe-inspiring and incontestable display of power, lest they be caught in the crossfire like their unfortunate comrades.

Kairos was the epicentre of all this. The pages in the tome of knowledge upon the tip of his staff flipped and whirled as if belonging to a student desperately searching for the unsearchable answer.

The power swirled together, and Kairos gave a great shriek, reminiscent of the great birds of prey that his physical form emulated. He lashed and clawed skywards, hovering above all others. Arms and staff lifted high as the shriek and the ritual reached crescendo.

The beam of unholy power spat out from the raw magic, launching like a hurtled javelin right at the great ward of protection that hung upon the Bastion. It cracked and split, the intricate lines and shapes and script coming undone under the fearsome attack. The wall trembled, and chunks of stone split out of the face of the magic-infused barrier and tumbled to earth.

But even as the symbol began to flicker and weaken, it burned bright, the broken strokes rewriting themselves in the air and the rock knitting itself back together, defying the damage that was still being inflicted.

Kairos snarled. He redoubled the attack. A handful of mages below screamed as their brains burned out from the intense magic. Kairos cared little for this. He was the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the material and immaterial worlds. The paltry hedge wizards trying to keep the wall upright were no match for his continued assault. The Bastion would fall, sooner or later.

A meagre band of halberdiers gathered before the castle gates. They held their weapons shakily, unsurely, all the while the sounds of battle raged from elsewhere. On the battlements above came the shattering crash of black-powder explosions, the bellow of the officers issuing commands, the screams of wounded and dying men, and the fearsome roars of those which were trying their hardest to penetrate the defences.

A massive blow fell upon the gate, making every board and nail shudder. The halberdiers reeled and almost fled from the archway, but at the last moment, they rallied and held, a spike of determination keeping them in place.

The castle gate exploded inwards, the great doors of pine splintering and swinging away on shattered hinges. Fire licked at the ruin, and Archaon rode through the entrance. He struck the gathered defenders like a lightning bolt, slamming many out of the way. Others fled, and only the desperately brave stood before him. Their end came with the swinging sword of fire, which felled these foolish mortals at every stroke.

Behind, a line of handgunners stood. Shaken by the sudden collapse of the gate and the massacre of their comrades-in-arms before their eyes, few even thought to aim at the Everchosen before the towering demonic knight was among them. Once they had been routed, he hurtled on and on into the citadel, his warriors at his side. None could stand against him; every captain and champion, every fleeing coward, not one could escape the snapping swing of his sword.

The roar of cannons came from the battlements of the inner wall, sending shot and shell into the attacking forces of Chaos, tearing limbs and killing dozens with each volley. Under the guidance of a competent commander, one battery sent its fire rocketing into a massive Cygor that was climbing over the outer wall, pulling masonry to pieces and sending rocks tumbling into the courtyard. The well-aimed shots ripped through the monstrous creature's belly, and it toppled forwards with a pained bellow, collapsing off the wall and down to the ground, splaying over the slope of ruined masonry it had created in its climb.

Archaon sent Droghur forward, and together they galloped for the inner gate. So swift and sudden had the attack been, that the gate remained foolishly open, the gaping expanse begging intrusion and invasion. The stairs were barely a spear's throw from the gate, wide and flat and laughably easy for a horse to traverse.

Upon the walls, the men of the Empire screamed and gibbered and cast themselves headlong from the crenellations, seized by a madness and abject terror of the apocalyptic herald that had appeared behind them. Those who vainly tried to defend their cannons with tools and knives were hurtled after their cowardly fellows. A blow from Droghur's chest and hooves sent one of the now silent machines of war tottering from its emplacement, trailing ruined wood as the iron length spun end over end towards the earth.

But even at this moment of supreme victory, Archaon found it snatched from his hands, as if by a larger predator. Horns sounded and echoed across the battlefield; not the visceral and gut-churning scream of a Chaos instrument. They were single-noted, sharp and disciplined, and they cut through the cacophony of battle like many beams of sunlight from the clouds above.

From the western horizon, the army approached. The banners were lifted up; multicoloured and proud in every flicker of the wind, and above all the others flew the Imperial standard in its red and white and gold. Infantry in the thousands, so many knights that their approach was a flashing river of silver, artillery of all shapes and descriptions, even a single rattling steam tank. Crowning the entire formation was the wheeling and swooping form of a golden griffon, easily larger than a wyvern, its battle shriek already audible. The personal mount of the Emperor himself.

Archaon growled aloud in anger as the enemy host drew closer. What could be done? Here they were trapped, caught between the advancing foes before them and the Bastion to their back. The beastmen horde he had mustered was fearsome, but no match for the full might of the Empire. With the Emperor on the field among them, these soldiers would not be the pushovers that the garrison had hitherto been.

Turning his head, he sent a snarling gaze towards the lofty cathedral, standing in mocking surety above them all, the flashing beams of magic shooting out across the wall. The wall that kept the Warhost of the Apocalypse from joining the fray.

"Time, time," he growled. "We need time! We need to bring the wall down!"

Szalamund wheeled his horse around. "I can hold the Empire at bay with the Swords and most of the beastmen. It won't be long, but it should be enough for you."

Archaon felt something in his internal fires cool. An echo of the past or a moment of apprehension, he searched for an answer. There was none, only the rush of wind and the shriek of a vacuum.

"Go," he ordered. "Hold as long as you can."

And just like that, Szalamund was gone, his horse clattering down the steps. The Swords of Chaos had also departed, joining the lord of Chaos in a charge of forlorn hope. Archaon was alone. He turned towards the winding wall-top pathway that led to the cathedral structure. The Slayer of Kings shivered. The Eye of Sheerian spluttered, as if for the first time unsure of itself. Droghur pawed the stonework reluctantly.

Straightening up and shaking himself, Archaon raced forward on the path to victory or defeat.

Reiksmarshal Kurt Helborg had seen many battles since his youth. The Empire was forever a dangerous place, and death lurked in every shadow and behind every tree from the heart of Altdorf to the depths of the murkiest forest. There were few men in the Imperial Army that had faced down the foes he had faced, stood against the hordes he had held back, almost none who could make the same claims to fame and renown he could. He had a reputation that every politician envied and coveted. If he had held any interest in politics, perhaps he might have been appointed as an Elector Count.

He was a soldier, through and through. To him, a life lived by lifting the sword against the foes outside the Empire was better than a life lived in a tall tower, scheming against imagined foes among the loyal citizens.

When the Emperor had sat down his Council of War and outlined the intelligence he had received, of the horde of beastmen growing in the dark and tainted heart of the forest, Helborg had prepared himself for the order to plunge the entire army into the ecological nightmare of a maze. Instead, it had been a very different set of instructions. At the time, Helborg had doubted in his heart. But it was his job to follow the Emperor to whatever end was necessary, so he had supported him.

And it seemed that the Emperor's intelligence had been not only accurate, but completely correct. Scouts had spotted the beastmen host moving towards the Bastion, on a path that would take them up the gullet of Castle Magnus and the magic ritual that was contained within. The combined Imperial Army had hastened out of its hiding places and force-marched through the night to reach the castle. And only just in time.

Even from this distance, Helborg could see that the defence looked incredibly bleak. The outer wall was breached, and the mounted artillery positions had largely fallen silent. Luckily, the beam of pure magic appeared untouched. A gift from the now-disgraced Patriarch, Balthasar Gelt, whose disappearance was still an often mentioned controversy. Helborg had his reservations about the controversial patriarch, and the bulwark of stone he had wrought with spell, but there was no denying its protective powers.

At his side, the Emperor himself, the renowned and well-liked Karl Franz, vaulted off his travel horse, a grim smile on his face. "Here we are. Now, for battle."

Deathclaw flapped down and landed with a proud shriek and a flutter of its plumage. The Emperor ran his hand over the creature's feathered flank. "Reiksmarshal. I want you to lead the ground assault. I need to protect the wizards. If they fall, the Bastion falls too."

Helborg glanced at those who surrounded them. Only the gleaming knights of the Reiksguard stood within earshot, men of valour whose loyalty was above question. Instinct still compelled him to lean closer and whisper. "The men would fight a lot better if you were at their head. The wizards have Ironsides and Warrior Priests to defend them."

"Indeed." The Emperor saw no need to keep his voice lowered. "But my guess is that the enemy will seek to reach the wizards above all, and throw the majority of all their forces there. I have to protect them, or all our efforts will be for nothing."

"If you say, sire." Helborg shifted slightly in the saddle. "May Ulric watch over you and keep your path straight."

The Emperor vaulted onto Deathclaw's back before answering. "May Sigmar bring you swift victory, Reiksmarshal."

Deathclaw leapt skywards, its wings lashing the ground and buffeting the banners with the wind of their passage. The golden feathers glittered as the creature circuited once above the army. Shading his eyes, Helborg gazed upwards, joining the thousands of soldiers doing the same.

The Emperor drew his sword and held it above his head. He shouted his battlecry. "For Sigmar!"

Thousands of soldiers lifted their weapons in reply. "For the Emperor!"

Helborg felt the rush to battle burning through his veins. He was back in his element again. Now was the time to fight for all that is good and valiant and holy and righteous in this world.

Droghur may have been a daemon, but it still held the form of a horse, and was thus limited in its speed. To Archaon, it felt like a crawl as they wound up the path to the cathedral. For every step the daemon took, the Imperial army seemed to cover a tenth of the distance to the castle. The horde of beastmen were turning and racing in the other direction, and a tip of armoured warriors were at their fore, the entire group raging and roaring in defiance of their enemies.

Archaon slammed the flat of the Slayer of Kings against his mount's flank, forcing it on and on in desperation. The stonework under the hooves exploded and shattered and the splinters went scattering like droplets of mud on a wet, rainy day.

Even so, he was too late. A screech sounded from above, and then a golden creature crashed down, claws scratching the ground, completely filling the path ahead. The man atop its back had gleaming silver armour that shined like it was reflecting the sun, even though the day was overcast.

"Now you will fall, demon!" the Emperor shouted and sent his griffon forward.

Everything slowed. Every sound dulled. Again, Archaon saw the collapse of everything he'd worked towards, every effort he had made, all his plans turning to ruin. His armies crushed and scattered, his champions and allies deserting, his body taken as a trophy by these upstart southerners.

You can beat him.

The little voice, the tiny voice, the voice of a child. It spoke from somewhere deep within.

He is a challenge, nothing more. You have faced many challenges like him, and with less on your side.

A lifetime of hardship flashed before him. A lifetime of pushing, pushing, pushing; screaming against the unfairness of fate and life and gods. He had risen far. Who could say how far he would ultimately rise? He had succeeded where so many others had fallen.

Now kill him.

Archaon met the Emperor's sword with his own, and their clash was titanic. The very masonry beneath their feet trembled and shuddered at the two heroes of opposing causes as they fought to the death and the fate of the untainted world.

The Imperial runefang in the Emperor's hand may have been blessed and inlaid with magic and wielded by an expert swordsman, but it was no match for the daemon-infused length of the Slayer of Kings. Many times its prophetic name was almost fulfilled as it slipped past the Emperor's guard and scored the surface of his armour, although it had yet to taste from his royal blood. Finally, the mortal man made his move.

The griffon leapt into the air while Archaon made a futile swipe at its limbs as it swept past. Almost too late, he saw the Emperor's plan.

They had gathered in silence during the single combat; a quadruple rank of Imperial Ironside handgunners, clad in the livery of the Nuln Gunnery School. The first rank was kneeling, and with the second rank they aimed their black powder weapons at the warlord of the apocalypse. The volley rolled across the lines with an orderly roar.

Archaon called upon the gifts of the Chaos Gods, the magics he was granted to control. The lead balls slowed until they floated in the air in a great cloud before him. Then he sent them skittering back and they tore through the ranks with terrible violence. Men fell in droves, their colourful uniforms turning dark with blood.

Even as the Ironsides reeled, the melee units advanced; a squad of Warrior Priests at the fore accompanied by a scratch force of halberdiers, spearmen, and swordsmen who had fled the destruction below. It was a charge of forlorn hope, and the first blow from the Slayer of Kings sent eight scions of the Empire plummeting from the wall. As he struck out again, the Ironsides reformed and readied to fire another volley at their foe. There would be no chance for Archaon to deflect this one, caught as he was, defending against the assault of the infantry around him.

Something vaulted over the edge of the wall. Something with a stunted body, with pink skin, and a single eye that bulged. It lashed its claws and bounded upon the nearest handgunner, bringing him to the ground as it snapped with its mouth. More of these creatures scaled over the wall, some blue, some pink, and all swarming the handgunners and silencing them before a single shot could be fired.

Horrors of Tzeentch. A gift from the Changeling.

The last Sigmarite priest fell, the litanies and chants to his god dying upon his lips with the light in his eyes. Archaon galloped forward, past the short-lived Horrors, writhing and burning up among the corpses of their prey, as they were called back to the Realm of Chaos. He had barely cleared the wrack and ruin when the Emperor's griffon landed on the path ahead and screeched at him. Droghur reared and pounded the masonry with his fore-hooves. A flash of light blazed somewhere above, scoring across the cloud-shrouded sky, brushing the Bastion. Thunder rolled with it, barely interrupted by distance, and the veil grew darker as the orange departed from the clouds to be replaced with shadow.

Before they could approach, before any more words or blows could be exchanged, a voice as cold and vile as a midnight fog spoke from behind. It rattled with an aristocratically clipped tone and the authority that only came from one who had looked into the void beyond the grave and been brought back.

"Turn, mortals. Turn."

In those last few moments before the front lines collided, the battle cries and the clank of armour melted away into an echoing silence. Helborg could only perceive the heavy thumps of his heart sounding in his ears, in time with the dull shudder of feet and hooves upon the heath, and the first shots of artillery.

The oppressive roar of battle returned like a wave hitting the shore, as man and beast crashed together in brutal combat. Spears and halberds were thrust into bellies and chests, swords swung, arrows loosed and pistols discharged. Men were clawed apart, limbs hacked off by serrated axes. The beastmen ululated, a terrible howl that filled the ears. The ground began to churn, turning slick with blood and mud.

The beastmen may have been terrifying, but the men of the Empire kept them at bay with the wonder of technology, mastery of faith, and sturdy discipline. Every step the mighty Imperial army took was forward, pushing the hordes of Chaos back and back and back. Every moment of battle that passed drew them closer to Castle Magnus and victory.

There was one point on the battle-line gave Helborg worry. A company of heavily armed and armoured mounted warriors, slicing through every Imperial soldier to come within range of their swords. At their fore was a figure in iron with two horns stabbing skywards from his helm. Helborg frowned as he saw the figure decapitate a captain who had fallen within range of his blade. Could this be the Everchosen himself, the leader of this invasion of the Empire and all mortal realms? If he could be killed here and now...

Helborg drew his sword. "Reiksguard, with me!"

As the horns of the Emperor's bodyguard sounded out the charge, he slammed his visor shut and sent his horse forward, the footsoldiers ahead of him jumping and skittering out of the way to avoid being run over and crushed. Onwards they went, a wedge of silver men on powerful horses, Helborg at their head. The figure saw their approach. He lifted his own sword, and his own warriors flowed with him as their coal-black mounts ate up the blood-soaked ground between the two groups.

In a microcosm of the war raging around them, the bodyguards of the Emperor and the Everchosen smashed together. Horses collided, men were thrown from the saddle by the points of lances, plate armour shattered as swords rose and fell. Helborg felt every breath, every rush of air that echoed in his helmet as he swung his blade at the figure who led the enemy. Every swing was parried, and the figure made a couple of thrusts of his own, almost breaking through Helborg's guard and penetrating his armour. Their horses pranced and darted around each other, mounts of valour and intelligence seeking to provide their masters with the greatest advantage in the duel. The figure's fur coat swept around with every motion, a fluttering distraction that many times concealed his sword until it was almost too late.

It wasn't until he first felt the tight pain in his chest, that Helborg realised the truth. He was fighting a younger man, a faster man, a man with quicker reaction times and vastly superior stamina. Helborg was not young. He may have been experienced, and fought more duels than any other man in the Imperial army, but that counted for little when his own body was failing him. His breath began to come in ragged gasps, and he knew that the fight would be won soon, or not at all.

And then it happened. The figure's sword was out of position by just enough, swinging up to parry just a fraction too slowly. Helborg's sword slipped through and stabbed into the figure's chest armour with all his weight and strength behind it. Only a pained grunt issued from within the Chaos lord's helmet; no scream of agony, just bemused injury. As if this was the first time he had considered that he could be wounded.

Helborg flicked his sword back, opening a wide slit in the figure's armour and flesh, causing a spurting wave of red blood to cascade out of it. The figure clutched at the wound with trembling fingers, a surprisingly human motion for someone so pitiless, who had given themselves over to the Ruinous Powers so utterly. Helborg drew back, ready to swing his sword around and decapitate the warlord prophesied to cause so much hurt and pain to the world.

A cry went up over the battlefield. A cry of fear, of terror.

"The Dead! The Dead!"

Ice flowed in Helborg's veins, his limbs locked up as he heard that shout. It could not be, but the proof was gathering before his very eyes. On the ground, an unhorsed knight, who had lain prone and motionless until that moment, suddenly rose to its feet, lifted by invisible hands and invisible puppet strings. Its arms dangled, its head lolled, and its eyes spat blue flame. It reached for Helborg with claw-like fingers. He chopped its arms off and planted a solid kick into its chest, sending it tumbling back to the ground.

Everywhere, across the battlefield, every corpse was rising back to join the fray with stilted, jerky movements, attacking friend and foe alike. Helborg looked up and he saw the swaying Everchosen being pulled away by his surviving bodyguards, as a sea of beastmen and undead swept in to cut Helborg off from them. He looked and he saw the fear in wavering men's eyes. He gritted his teeth.

"Hold!"