03 - God King (48 page)

Yet no sooner had the painful empathic horror of Markus’ destruction passed
than he felt Siggurd’s pain as weapons blessed in the name of the god of all
living things pierced his immortal flesh. He winced with each wound, unused to
such pain, and felt Siggurd’s anger as he was forced to flee. His two unbeatable
warriors had been defeated, one destroyed, the other wounded almost to the point
of dissolution.

Khaled al-Muntasir forced the anger at their incompetence aside and turned
his attention to the rest of the battle, trying to regain his impregnable
confidence. Thousands more dead warriors were advancing towards the city,
pushing past the tiny islands of resistance that had met with some fleeting
success. The battle line of mortals arrayed before the walls was fighting with
admirable courage, but no hope of victory. They took backward step after
backward step, and it was only a matter of time until they broke. Yet in the
centre of the battle, cut off from the rest of his army, Sigmar drove for the
low hillside where Nagash awaited him. Less than a hundred warriors still rode
with the Emperor, yet they charged as though all of mankind were with them.

The vampire looked to the black form of Nagash, who stood with his enormous
sword and twisted-snake staff in his hands. Black light flickered from the staff
and blue fire wreathed the blade of his ancient sword.

“What are you waiting for?” hissed Khaled al-Muntasir. “Just kill him and be
done with it.”

Yet even as he said the words, he knew Nagash could not kill Sigmar with his
black sorcery while he wore the crown. Its incredible power would protect any
wearer from virtually all forms of magic.

Khaled al-Muntasir watched as Nagash raised his staff and arcing bolts of
lightning forked downwards, striking the gems inset along its scaled length. A
storm of dark energy surrounded the necromancer and he slammed the staff into
the ground. With senses beyond those of mortals, Khaled al-Muntasir watched the
energy flow from the staff and into the hillside, spreading like the roots of a
poisoned tree beneath the earth.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

These black roots sought the bleak places of the land, the abandoned
graveyards long since paved over, the forgotten plague pits covered in quicklime
and the sites of murder and mayhem. Drawn to these places like rats to a
cesspit, Nagash’s sorcery infused the earth with the dark magic of undeath.

And the unquiet dead rose from their ancient graves to claw their way to the
world above.

The earth rumbled with the sound of digging claws and moaning hunger, the
churned grass rippling as the dead of centuries before rose to the surface.
Hands long devoid of meat erupted from the earth and hauled flesh-less corpses
back to the land that had consigned them to the ground. From the southern fork
of the river to the city gates, a huge tear opened in the earth and a thousand
or more dead warriors from the time before men had dwelled in cities and towns
lurched unsteadily to their feet.

The Asoborns and the people of Reikdorf fleeing the onward march of the dead
abandoned all pretence of an ordered retreat at the sight of this new horror.
They ran for the city gates, terrified at being surrounded and cut off from
their home. Even Freya, whose courage was unquestioned, fled along with her
sons, Maedbh, Ulrike and Cuthwin. Daegal, with his newfound courage, formed a
rearguard with the few surviving Queen’s Eagles, and if any of them thought it
strange to be taking orders from one so young, none remarked upon it.

Within the walls of Reikdorf, the ground broke open as the dead climbed from
below, pushing their way into the half-light as Nagash’s sorcery compelled their
grisly remains to rise up and slay the living. Hundreds of dead things stalked
the streets of the city, fighting anything warm and feasting on their flesh.

Alfgeir and Teon were trapped within a closing ring of undead, their retreat
cut off by a newly emerged phalanx of the dead. They were unarmed, these dead
men, but they swiftly picked up the weapons of those the Unberogen had already
destroyed. Ragged, disorganised and freshly risen, they were formidable in their
numbers if not their skill as fighters.

In the north, yet more dead arose, surrounding Govannon, Bysen and the dwarfs
as they hacked at the indestructible corpse of Krell. Though their axes were
sharper than any weapon forged by the hands of men, they could not easily undo
armour worked in the forges of smiths who gave praise to the bloody gods of the
north.

The mortal army was surrounded and doomed.

Sigmar smashed aside a pair of skeletal warriors, champions in ancient,
verdigris-stained armour of a thousand years ago. Hundreds of these undying
creatures surrounded him, and yet still they pushed on. Ghal-Maraz flickered
with silver fire and shimmering sparks flew from his every blow. Hundreds of the
dead had fallen before him, but hundreds more still awaited destruction.

Beside him, Wolfgart hacked through the dead with great sweeps of his sword,
each blow weaker than the last as his strength grew less and less. Where
Ghal-Maraz imparted a measure of its power to Sigmar, Wolfgart enjoyed no such
boon. Wenyld fought mechanically, slumped low over his saddle, though Sigmar’s
banner still flew above the heroic warriors who rode with him.

Ghal-Maraz swept out to either side, breaking the dead warriors apart with
brutal cracks of shattered bone. As the last ranks of the dead were crushed
beneath their horses’ hooves, Sigmar’s Unberogen, fifty warriors in total, rode
onto the clear ground before the low hillside where Nagash awaited them. Its
base was encircled by tall warriors in heavy hauberks of black iron, who carried
long halberds with icy blades. A host of swirling spirits gathered in the air
above the necromancer, and the darkness around him was total. Sigmar had no idea
how fared the rest of his army, but knew that unless he could end this now, it
would be slaughtered by morning’s light.

A trail of broken bodies littered the ground behind them, and though
thousands of the dead were within reach, none turned towards them, as though
their presence was an irrelevance.

“Almost there,” said Wolfgart, twisting in his saddle to make sure no more of
the dead were moving to attack them.

“Aye,” agreed Sigmar. “One more push and I’ll have him right where I want
him.”

Wolfgart gave him a sidelong look and then burst out laughing.

“Damn me, Sigmar,” he said. “I’m tired worse than I was at Black Fire, and
that’s saying something, but you can still make me smile.”

Sigmar nodded, feeling the weight of the crown at his brow grow heavier with
every step his horse took towards the hillside. He felt its anger at him surge,
a fury that a mere mortal dared to wield it and not partake of its power. Its
maker was at hand, and it renewed its assault on his mind, battering him with
dreams of pleasure, nightmares of failure and temptations of wealth, power and
godhood.

None could reach Sigmar, for he had reached that place where all thoughts of
self were extinguished. All that was left to him now was service to his people,
and not even death could keep him from that duty. Piece by piece, Sigmar had
shed all his earthly desires, putting them aside for the greater good of the
Empire.

Nagash’s crown had nothing left with which to tempt or intimidate him, for
his entire being was dedicated to one ideal. That was something no necromancer
could ever understand, the dedication of the self to a higher purpose, where the
one man could make the difference between life and death, success or failure.

In this world, at this time, Sigmar was that man. He had believed that from
the day he had walked amongst the tombs of his ancestors on his Dooming Day, but
had
known
it when he passed through the fire of Ulric unharmed.

Everything he had done had driven him to this moment, and he knew this foe
was his to face alone. Sigmar swung his leg over his saddle and dropped to the
earth as a sudden stillness and silence spread outwards from the hillside.
Though battle still raged beyond, Sigmar could hear nothing beyond his own
laboured breathing and the distant howling of wolves.

He walked over to Wenyld and lifted his hand towards the red and gold banner.

“Time to pass it on, my friend,” said Sigmar.

Wenyld nodded, too weak from blood loss to resist as Sigmar took the banner
pole from his blooded grip.

“What in Ulric’s name are you doing?” demanded Wolfgart, walking his horse
alongside him and dismounting. “Get back on your horse, you fool!”

“No,” said Sigmar. “I’m going to end this now.”

“What? You’re just going to walk up to the bloody necromancer on foot?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” replied Sigmar, turning and making his way
towards the hillside. “And don’t follow me. This is something I need to do
alone.”

“Why, for the love of the gods? Tell me that at least.”

Sigmar said, “Because this is how it has to be. You know how it goes. At the
end of all the sagas, the hero always stands alone or else he’s not a hero.”

“Damn the sagas,” swore Wolfgart. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Yes you are,” said Sigmar as the ancient warriors at the base of the hill
parted to allow him passage. “Wenyld needs you.”

Wolfgart turned and caught Wenyld as he fell from his saddle. Once again the
howl of wolves sounded from over forested hills and shadowed valleys, carried to
Reikdorf by cold northern winds. As Wolfgart lowered the dying Wenyld to the
ground, Sigmar turned and climbed the hill towards Nagash, his banner in one
hand, Ghal-Maraz in the other.

He heard Wolfgart shouting his name, but didn’t dare look
back.

Every step was a battle, each yard he drew nearer to the necromancer a
struggle against his mortal inclination to flee this abomination. The summit of
the hill was wreathed in spirits in black, ghostly revenants of lost souls
doomed to attend upon Nagash from now until the end of all things. Sigmar felt
the dead light of Nagash roam across his body, learning in a heartbeat how he
had grown and was now edging his way to the grave.

A black miasma swirled around the base of the hill, isolating him from the
mortal world beyond, and Sigmar felt his flesh recoil from the vile presence of
the immortal necromancer. His armour creaked in the frozen air and webs of frost
spread across his breastplate and shoulder guards. Ghal-Maraz was his only
warmth, the language beaten into its haft by master runesmiths glowing with
fierce light beneath his grip. Sigmar held tight to its warmth, for the crown at
his brow felt like an ever-tightening fist of ice.

Though it could not touch him, the crown’s assault on his mind was
undiminished, taunting him for the sake of spite and hatred. Nagash’s form
seemed to stretch up into the darkness as Sigmar drew near, the necromancer’s
body growing larger and more imposing as though empowered by the very nearness
of his crown.

Armoured in eldritch plates of enchanted black iron, Nagash was easily twice
the height of Sigmar. His bones were suffused with a venomous green light, every
crack and imperfection in his armour lambent with an internal fire that came
from ancient magic woven from the myriad winds blowing from the far north. His
staff was a slender length of shimmering darkness, like entwined snakes, and his
sword was at least as tall as Sigmar. Cold blue flames licked along its length
and it radiated a chill that touched Sigmar deep in his bones.

Nagash stared down at him, and Sigmar fought against that dread gaze, feeling
his limbs fill with ice water and lead. Twin orbs of deathly green fire stared
at Sigmar, eyes that had seen the world before men had walked the lands he now
ruled. Thousands of years separated them, an ocean of time that Sigmar found
impossible to comprehend. He could no more imagine the world of such long ago
days as he could imagine the Empire in thousands of years to come.

I will show you…

The voice was like continents colliding, a deathly cadence that owed nothing
to an actual voice. It was the sound of death itself. Sigmar staggered as he saw
a land of forests and mountains, its people divided and the world in turmoil.
Blood stained every rock, and the glint of iron weapons was everywhere. Armies
of such size as to defy imagination marched all across this land, destroying
everything in their path without mercy.

Bodies lay gutted by the roadside, men, women and children. Still-living
captives were bound to stakes and left for the animals to devour. Sigmar saw
slaughter and blood everywhere, hacked up corpses and bodies burned alive in
their homes. He wept to see such destruction visited upon his people and his
anger built as he sought the source of this debauchery. His gaze fell upon an
army marching to a city at the confluence of many rivers. Colourful banners
fluttered overhead, and the soldiers were clad in equally gaudy uniforms.

They marched in disciplined ranks, singing songs of martial pride, and Sigmar
wept to see that this was no army of monsters, beasts of the undead. These were
men. Worse, they were men of the Empire.

Look closer…

Though he knew it was what Nagash wanted, Sigmar could not help himself. He
saw the army’s banners were decorated with skulls and laurels, crossed spears
and spread-winged eagles. And upon all of them were stitched scrolls, each
bearing a single word.

Sigmar.

These were warriors who fought in his name. They carried weapons of unusual
design, wooden staves like the thunder bows of the dwarfs, and wagons bearing
unfamiliar war machines drew up the rear of the marching column. Two metal
behemoths followed the supply wagons, lumbering contraptions on iron-rimmed
wheels that belched steam and black smoke from square fireboxes at their rear.