03 - God King (45 page)

Wolfgart rode alongside him, his face bloody and his mighty sword notched
from the many blows he’d struck. His mail was torn and plate dented, but none of
the blood coating his flesh was his own. Wenyld lifted the banner high and a
roaring cheer burst from every Unberogen throat. Sigmar saw Wenyld’s face was
ashen, and blood streamed down his leg.

“Can you ride?” he asked the younger man.

“Aye, my lord,” said Wenyld, breathlessly. “I was careless. Took a spear
thrust a moment ago. It’s nothing.”

“I’ve seen my share of wounds, boy,” said Wolfgart. “That’s not nothing.”

“I’ll ride with you,” stated Wenyld, and there was no disagreeing with him.

“Ulric keep you,” said Sigmar, sharing a glance with Wolfgart.

Wenyld saw it and said, “Don’t worry, if I’m going to die on you I’ll hand
the banner over first. Can’t have it falling, eh? Not now.”

“Not now,” agreed Sigmar, turning his horse and taking a moment to survey the
battle. It was difficult to see much through the mass of the dead and the
unnatural darkness, but he saw enough to know that they had little time to
waste. The northern flank was in danger of collapsing, the Red Scythes embroiled
in a furious battle with mounted black knights and a terrible avatar of
destruction, while a mass of wolves and shambling corpses swept past the
Asoborns towards the city walls. He couldn’t see what had become of Freya, and
Alfgeir’s riders had become bogged down in the ranks of the skeleton warriors.

“We’re on our own here,” said Wolfgart, seeing the same thing.

“Looks that way,” said Sigmar. “But I always knew that would be how it
ended.”

“Then let’s finish this before I lose my nerve,” said Wolfgart, hefting his
sword over his shoulder and wiping the blood from his face. “All these men dying
around us will be for nothing if we can’t get through to that bony bastard.”

Sigmar nodded, searching the darkness ahead for Nagash. The necromancer was
not hard to find, a towering black form atop a low hill beyond the road. Swirls
of sable smoke coiled around Nagash, his undying body a black tear in the fabric
of night through which all the cold of the Grey Vaults leached into the world.

Unberogen horsemen formed up on the banner, bloodied and weary after their
long ride, but hungry for more.

“Our foe is within reach!” shouted Sigmar, pointing Ghal-Maraz towards the
hill upon which stood the necromancer.

“On! On!” cried Wolfgart in answer.

And the charge began again.

While Sigmar punched through the hordes of the dead, the people of Reikdorf
marched in defence of their city.

Positioned behind the main battle line, they were thrilled and terrified,
clutching makeshift weapons in the hope that they would not have to use them. It
had been all too easy to follow Sigmar and his warriors through the ruined
Ostgate on a wave of exhilaration, but as the rain battered down and the
darkness closed in, fear returned to erode the fragile courage that had been
built within the city walls.

In the centre of the mass of people gathered to the south of the gate Daegal
felt his terror climb to new heights. He had fought the army of Khaled
al-Muntasir by the river and terror flowed through his veins at the thought of
facing the army of the dead once more. He knew it had been his cowardice that
had seen the Asoborn army break, his panic that had spread to the warriors
around him and caused the defeat.

Too ashamed to ride out with his fellow tribesmen, he had hidden within the
city and managed to avoid anyone that knew him. Instead, he had been swept up in
the borrowed courage of Reikdorf’s people and found strength enough to march
with them to this patch of ground before the walls.

“Please don’t let me fail again,” he whispered to the gods.

Khaled al-Muntasir watched the battle unfold, admiring the strength of
purpose invigorating this mortal army. He had fought for Nagash since before
leaving Athel Tamara, and had been less than impressed by the skill and
resilience of this northern empire. How could such a people claim to be the
masters of this land?

Then he had fought the remnants of the Asoborns at the wooded hill, and the
first chinks of doubt had entered his mind. Now, as Sigmar drew ever closer,
Khaled al-Muntasir found himself wondering if he had grossly underestimated this
barbarian Emperor. True, his people were little better than savages, but they
possessed a primitive nobility that had surprised him. Individually they were
weak and pathetic, but welded together by Sigmar, they were stronger than even
they knew.

Khaled al-Muntasir glanced towards Nagash, wondering if he too had
underestimated these mortals. It seemed absurd that he should entertain such
doubts, for the host of the dead was already beginning to envelop the mortal
army. Krell was butchering the warriors in the north, and the south was on the
brink of collapse. The carrion eaters and corpses were already moving on the
city walls, and Markus would soon end the resistance in the centre.

So why did he still feel so uneasy?

His black steed tossed its head, snorting and stamping the ground as it
smelled the blood on the air. It was impatient to join the slaughter, and its
hide steamed in the relentless rain cascading from the sky. Khaled al-Muntasir
lifted the lank fabric of his cloak, knowing the material was ruined.

He jerked the reins of his mount, and turned his horse to the north.

Nagash’s cold gaze fell upon him and he felt the necromancer’s displeasure.

“The northern flank is holding out,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “I will take
some riders and break it open.”

Nagash didn’t answer, his attention firmly fixed on the glittering crown upon
Sigmar’s brow as the Emperor rode straight for him. Khaled al-Muntasir drew his
sword and rode north, grateful to be free of that frozen, penetrating gaze.

The vampire looked to the east, to the lands already taken by the dead, and
saw moonlight glittering from distant spires and forgotten castles perched high
on rocky bluffs. He smiled to himself, picturing a reign of terror that could be
unleashed from such a lair.

“Yes,” he said to himself. “That would be very fine.”

Alfgeir watched as the thing that had once been Count Markus of the Menogoths
circled him, swinging the sword Govannon had forged for him. Death had erased
none of the swordsman count’s skill with a blade, and Alfgeir knew he could not
prevail against him. Markus saw the defeat in his eyes and licked his thin,
bloodless lips.

“Why don’t you come down off that horse?” said the vampire. “Make it a fair
fight?”

“You have my sword,” said Alfgeir. “How is that a fair fight?”

“True,” smiled Markus. “Come down anyway. I can kill you just as easily on
the back of your horse, but at least on foot we’ll be eye to eye.”

“Fair enough,” said Alfgeir, unhitching an axe from the back of his saddle.
It was a short-hafted axe, a backup weapon, and would be a poor defence against
his own sword. Though the dead pressed in all around, the Great Hall Guard held
them back. There was no way they could now ride to Sigmar’s aid, and the bitter
gall of failure tasted of ashes in his mouth.

Markus spun the sword, its glittering length moving like a snake in the
vampire’s grip. Alfgeir remembered fencing the Menogoth count in a friendly duel
many years ago. It had been a humbling experience to be so outclassed when he
rated himself highly as a swordsman.

Alfgeir faced the blood drinker, quelling his hatred for this thing that wore
the face of an honourable man. He felt the ice of the vampire’s nearness,
gritting his teeth against its chill. Markus took up the en garde position, and
Alfgeir lunged forward, the axe blade chopping for the vampire’s head.

Markus stepped back, rolling the sword around Alfgeir’s axe and stabbing the
tip through his pauldron and into his shoulder. Alfgeir tried to shut out the
pain, but it spread to his chest and he staggered. The vampire spun around
Alfgeir, slashing the sword across his other shoulder and neatly slicing away
his other pauldron.

“Come on,” sneered Markus. “I remember you were better than this. Not much
better, it’s true, but better nonetheless.”

“That was ten years ago,” grunted Alfgeir, pushing himself upright.

“Really? You’ve aged badly, my friend.”

“Ulric damn you to the Grey Vaults,” hissed Alfgeir. “You are not my friend!”

Markus came at him again, his sword dancing like a forking bolt of lightning
as it whipped around Alfgeir’s clumsy axe swings. Time and time again, the blade
licked out and cut pieces of his armour away. Alfgeir was left bloodied and in
pain with each blow.

“Kill me and be done with it!” bellowed Alfgeir, and Markus stabbed the sword
an inch into the muscle of his thigh. He bled from a dozen wounds, none serious
enough to kill him, but all painful enough to sap his strength with every
passing second.

“Nonsense,” replied Markus. “You haven’t even begun to fight properly yet.”

Alfgeir lifted his axe again, but Markus spun around him, the sword cutting
down in a blur of rune-etched silver. Agonising pain shot through Alfgeir’s
body, and his vision filled with white light as he reeled from the blow. His
entire body was a furnace of agony. He tried to lift his arm to strike one last,
desperate blow, but his body wouldn’t obey him.

He saw the axe lying on the ground.

Next to the axe was his arm.

Alfgeir stared in open-mouthed shock at the neatly severed stump where his
right arm had been. There was no blood, so clean and cold had the wound been
cut. Horror drove him to his knees, and he fought to hold onto consciousness as
the terrible nature of his maiming threatened to overwhelm him. His breath came
in sharp hikes of panic.

Markus circled him, the stolen sword spinning in his grip as he looked down
at Alfgeir.

“Such a shame, you would have made a fine lieutenant,” said the vampire.

“To you?” hissed Alfgeir. “Never.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Markus, raising the sword for the deathblow.

Though the duel had been fought in isolation until now, a figure hurled
itself at the vampire, one with a dented bronze helm and a heavy broadsword.
Teon slashed his sword at Markus’ neck, but the vampire was faster than any
mortal opponent, and the tip of Teon’s blade passed less than a finger’s breadth
from his neck.

Markus cut high with his sword and the edge slammed into the side of Teon’s
head.

“No!” shouted Alfgeir.

The sword bounced upwards, deflected from its decapitating course by the dent
in the side of the helm to slice off the horsehair plume. Teon fell to the
ground with a cry of pain, the sword spinning away and landing upright in the
marshy ground. Alfgeir snatched up the fallen axe in his left hand and hurled
himself at the vampire. Markus brought his sword up to block the crude attack,
but Alfgeir had no intention of going blade to blade with the vampire.

He let go of the axe, and it spun through the air toward the vampire. It
struck him full in the face and Alfgeir heard bone break over Markus’ shriek of
pain. Instinctively, he dropped the sword as his hands flew to his face to stem
the tide of dead blood. Alfgeir dropped to the ground, his strength spent in
this last, futile act of defiance.

Through tear- and rain-blurred vision, he saw the handle of his sword lying
in the mud at the vampire’s feet. He wanted to reach out and grab it. Though it
was no more than a foot away, it might as well have been a thousand yards. He
closed his eyes as the world went grey and he heard the sweet sound of wolves in
the distance.

A cold, winter wind blew from the north and Alfgeir felt his limbs fill with
the strength of the pack. He reached out towards the sword, feeling an
ice-frosted hand that was more like a clawed paw place the handle in his palm.

His fingers closed on the weapon and he opened his eyes. Snow swirled where
no snow had been before and the world around him moved as though slowed to the
pace of a glacier’s advance. He saw droplets of blood hanging in the air, a bolt
of lightning tracing a leisurely path across the heavens and the frozen breath
of nearby warriors gradually expanding from their lips. Markus turned slowly
towards him, his face a mask of dark blood and his red eyes filled with terrible
hunger. Long fangs jutted from his jaws and his hands had become elongated
claws.

Alfgeir surged to his feet, he alone able to move normally. With a roar of
hatred, he sliced his sword in a sweeping arc towards the vampire. He had a
moment to savour the gelid onset of fear in Markus’ eyes before the blade cut
into his neck and parted his head from his shoulders. No sooner had the blade
connected than the normal flow of time reasserted itself. Blood spattered,
lightning blazed briefly and breath vanished.

Markus collapsed to the ground, his body crumbling within his armour as decay
claimed the flesh feast denied it with the blood kiss. Burning with inner
embers, the vampire’s body became ashes in moments, a ghostly shriek of torment
exploding outwards from its demise.

Alfgeir stood on trembling legs for a second until he could stand no more. He
sank to his haunches, utterly drained, and slumped over onto his back. He looked
up into the sky, seeing a clear patch where the stars shone through the ghastly
canopy of darkness. In the distance he heard wolves again, and smiled as the
hurt of his wounds vanished.

He felt hands beneath him, lifting him upright, and the pain returned with a
vengeance.

“Alfgeir!” shouted Teon. “Ulric’s bones, how did you move so fast?”

He tried to tell the lad to let him go, that Ulric was calling to him, but
the sound of wolves faded into the distance and tears spilled down his cheeks.

“Ulric isn’t ready for me yet,” he whispered.

“Nor me it seems,” said Teon, and Alfgeir saw how lucky the boy was to be
alive. The vampire’s blow had taken the plume and the top portion of the helmet,
but it had missed the boy’s skull by no more than the width of the blade.