03 - God King (29 page)

“Sound the retreat,” he gasped.

“There’s no need,” said Laredus. “We’re all that’s left. Raven Helms! With
the count!”

Aldred and Laredus turned and ran towards the gates of the citadel, but they
had covered barely half the distance when the ground trembled. Glittering
particles swirled in hundreds of miniature whirlwinds, dust devils that spun and
twisted like living things of spectral light. They gathered form and solidity
until hundreds of translucent figures stood between them and the citadel, a
lambent host of ancient men and women with eyes of pale white and mouths
stretched open in soundless screams.

The blood froze in Aldred’s veins.

An army of the dead behind them and a host of hungry ghosts ahead of them.

They were trapped.

Marika saw the host of shimmering spirits arise from the dust and her
humanity rebelled at the sight of these wretched souls denied their final rest.
She could feel their pain and the horror of their blasted existence, and tears
welled at the thought of such a fate. What manner of man could tear these souls
from Morr’s realm and force them into slavery, denying them their rightful place
in the next world?

These dreadful wraiths flickered in the air like wavering candle flames,
drifting against the wind towards Aldred and the Raven Helms. A ring of dead
warriors and glowing spirits surrounded them, and there was nothing anyone could
do. No warrior dared leave the citadel while the looming dragon and fear of the
restless spirits held their courage in check.

Screams and groans of pain surrounded her. The dragon’s breath had swept the
ramparts and its pestilential exhalation choked the life and vitality from all
those who breathed its foulness. Young men in the full fire of youth had fallen
to the ground, transformed into ancients with withered skin, brittle bones and
sunken flesh. Some coughed up bloody froth as their lungs dissolved, while
others had the flesh scoured from their bones by the noxious corruption.

A handful of arrows slashed up at the beast, but every single one bounced
from its dead hide. The war machine crews attempted to bring down the beast, but
some hideous force protected it from their missiles. Unable to harm the dragon,
the survivors of its attack turned their bows upon the dead spirits, loosing
volley after volley at the glowing figures. Their arrows passed through the
spirits’ forms, clattering on the cobbled streets and shattering as though they
had been frozen in flight.

They might as well have been loosing arrows at clouds for all the effect they
were having.

Undeterred, Marika pulled back her bowstring and loosed a shaft from the bow
her father had given her on her fifteenth birthday. The bowstave was fashioned
from a wood no Endal craftsman could name or work, its length inlaid with silver
threads woven through the grain of the wood in swirling patterns that changed
with the seasons.

Her arrow leapt from the bow, arcing up and slashing down through the
spirits, and where its point struck, one of the forlorn revenants vanished in a
flare of light.

“They
can
be slain,” she said, looking in amazement at her bow. The
metallic threads shimmered with life and the wood grew warm to the touch. Her
father had told her the bow had been crafted by the fey folk from across the
ocean, but she hadn’t really believed him until now. She bent her bow and
released over and over, freeing more of the damned spirits from their hellish
servitude in shimmering twists of light.

But as many as she banished, there was no way she was going to destroy enough
to save Aldred and the Raven Helms.

Aldred and Laredus stood back to back as the dead drew near. Ulfshard
shimmered with a blue light, the blade brighter than Aldred had ever known it.
The moans of the dead cut through the din of battle and the dry roar of the
dragon and its screeching bats. The Raven Helms fought the dead coming in from
the sea with desperate strokes, blocking ship’s axes and cutting down dead men
who came at them with nothing but their clawed hands reaching to pluck the eyes
from their heads.

The spirits of the dead enveloped them, swirling in a cloying mist of screams
and tormented wailing. They tore at the Endals with insubstantial claws that
passed through the thickest armour yet drew no blood. The merest touch of these
damned spirits sucked the vitality from a warrior like a leech drawing blood
from a wound. None came near Aldred, flinching from him as soon as he brought
Ulfshard to bear. He swept his sword through the misty substance of the spirits,
feeling their joy as the connection to the evil sorcery binding them to the
world of the living was severed.

Yet it was not enough. The spirits shrieked and wailed as they were
dissipated by Aldred’s blade, but there were too many of the fleshy undead to
defeat. The ring of Raven Helms shrank as the ranks of the dead swelled still
further. More ships were crashing into the shoreline to disgorge yet more of the
doomed warriors of the dead.

Aldred heard a furious clamour from the citadel and saw a banner of bright
colours borne through the melee, a flag no Endal would dream of bearing. It was
a Jutone flag, ostentatiously colourful and garish, and beneath it rode a host
of armoured lancers in pale blue cloaks fighting with curved sabres. Marius
fought at their centre, cutting a dashing path through the dead with the elegant
sweeps of a duellist. His blade was a golden streak of sunlight, and like
Ulfshard, the dead feared it.

The Jutone cavalry smashed through the encircling dead, and Marius backhanded
a reverse cut into the skull of a dead warrior, neatly removing the top of his
head. Marius fought with fluid grace, as much a showman as a killer. His skill
was undeniable, though Aldred saw he favoured his right side.

The charge of the Jutone horsemen was devastating, smashing the dead apart
with ferocity Aldred had hitherto not suspected. The Endals had long believed
the Jutones had gone soft in their city of merchants, preferring the luxuries
gold could buy instead of living as warriors. Clearly he had underestimated
Marius, and the thought disturbed rather than reassured him.

While the Raven Helms and Jutone lancers held the dead at bay, Marius reined
in his horse beside Aldred, his face flushed with excitement and the thrill of
battle.

“I think you should be getting out of here, yes?” said Marius.

“Where in Manann’s name did you come from?” demanded Aldred. “Weren’t you
supposed to be holding the southern shore?”

“We were, but rather more monsters than we could handle came ashore and I had
to fall back to the citadel to save my men,” said Marius.
“We
mounted up
as soon as we saw your danger, and here we are.”

“You allowed us to be flanked!”

“Yes, my deepest apologies about that, but I did send a runner informing you
of our withdrawal,” said Marius smoothly. “I suppose he must have been killed en
route. That is a pity.”

“A pity!” stormed Aldred. “We were almost overrun.”

“And you still will be if you insist on having this ridiculous discussion
now,” pointed out Marius. “Get up behind me if you want to live through this
night.”

Marius held out his hand to Aldred, who bit back an angry retort as he hauled
himself onto the back of the Jutone count’s horse. Though it went against
everything he knew to be right, he held his sword out to Marius.

“The spirit creatures fear the magic of Ulfshard,” he said. “Use it to cut us
a path.”

“No need, they fear mine also,” said Marius with a manic grin. “Now let’s be
off.”

Marius kicked back his spurs with a wild yell, and his horse
took off towards the citadel. The Jutone lancers fought alongside the Raven
Helms as Marius forced the howling wraiths back with his enchanted blade. They
rode back towards the citadel gates through the path the lancers had cut. Aldred
heard cheers from the ramparts as they came within sight of the gates and
laughed with joy. He saw his sister loosing arrows into the dead, and his relief
fled as he saw the expression on her face. It was disappointment.

Redwane paced the firelit interior of the temple of Ulric, a pulsing vein
throbbing at his temple as he listened to Myrsa’s pronouncement. Renweard stood
at the count’s side, the sword of the Warrior Eternal held loosely over his
shoulder, while Bordan sat on a block of dark stone yet to be hoisted to the
temple walls. The flame of Ulric burned cold in the centre of the stone-flagged
plaza, white and stark against walls that rose daily to enclose it as the temple
neared completion.

Ar-Ulric and his wolves circled the flame, their black eyes reflecting its
glow and regarding Redwane as a fox eyes a wounded hen. The temple had changed a
great deal since Sigmar’s defeat of the daemon lord, all traces of the battle
cleaned from the stonework and paved over with polished granite hewn from the
quarries of the Middle Mountains. It had been a magnificent battle, yet no one
wanted a reminder of that dread avatar of the northern gods to befoul a holy
place of Ulric.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Redwane. “You’re really not going to
march out?”

“I have made my judgement, Redwane,” said Myrsa. “And my decision is final.”

“But Sigmar needs us. You heard what Ar-Ulric said—the armies of Nagash are
closing on Reikdorf. We have to ride south.”

“We need to keep Middenheim safe,” said Myrsa, clutching the hilt of the
runefang tightly. The count of the northern marches walked towards Redwane and
laid a hand upon his shoulder. “I know you and Sigmar are close, but the Emperor
has entrusted me with the safety of Middenheim and I cannot let him down. If I
ride south with my army then this city is doomed. Surely you must see that?”

“All I see is that we’re abandoning the Emperor when he needs us most.”

“You are not thinking straight, my friend,” said Myrsa, concern written
across his features. “The deathly champion on the causeway wounded you deeper
than you know.”

Redwane shrugged off Myrsa’s hand, angry at the other man’s pity. Two days
had passed since Ar-Ulric’s arrival, and his strength was only now beginning to
return. The icy numbness and frozen chill that had stilled his heart still clung
to his grey flesh. No heat warmed Redwane now, yet neither cold nor fear touched
him anymore. His body was alive, yet he felt no sensations of life. Food was
tasteless, beauty meaningless, and all that remained to him was the pain of his
many scars.

He turned to Ar-Ulric, his tone accusing. “You agree with this? You crowned
Sigmar, remember? You would cower in this mountain city and leave him to his
fate? That is not Ulric’s way, or if it is, I’ll have no part of it.”

The wolves at Ar-Ulric’s side growled, baring fangs of ice and obsidian,
their yellowed eyes boring into him with cunning beyond that of beasts. Redwane
met their stare unflinchingly, daring them to gainsay him. Ar-Ulric crossed the
temple towards him, his aura of frozen winters leaving Redwane untouched. Behind
the great wolf-skull helm, Redwane saw piercing eyes like those of the wolves,
one pale as a winter sky, the other blacker than a moonless night.

“You are soul-sick, Redwane of the Unberogen,” said Ar-Ulric, placing his
glittering axe between them. Chill wisps of icy air wafted from the blade and
haft, but Redwane felt nothing of the cold. “You do not see the passage of time
as I do. I roam the wild places of this world, following the breath of Ulric to
the forgotten sites of primal power. I seek to follow the wolf god’s path and
instruct men in his ways of honour and courage.”

“Really?” said Redwane. “Then why do we never see you? It’s been over a
decade since you’ve shown your damn face amongst the tribes. That doesn’t sound
like you’re doing much in the way of instruction. That sounds a lot like hiding
to me.”

“Redwane!” barked Myrsa. “Hold your tongue!”

Ar-Ulric held up his hand to silence Myrsa. “My days of wandering are over.
From this day until the coming of the Red Eye, he who brings the End Times,
Middenheim shall be my abode. But the Heldenhammer must face the dread
Necromancer without the warriors of the north or he is not fit to be Emperor.”

“Why?” demanded Redwane. “Tell me why.”

“Because if the Flame of Ulric is ever extinguished, then the Empire dies
with it. Do
you
understand that, Redwane of the Unberogen?”

“I understand it, but I do not accept it,” said Redwane. “And if that is the
word of Ulric, then I spit on him and curse his name with my last breath!”

Gasps of horror spread through the temple at Redwane’s blasphemy, and more
than one hand found its way to a weapon. Renweard swung the sword of the Warrior
Eternal down, and Myrsa’s face flushed in anger.

“You dare speak such words in this place?” cried Myrsa.

“You’re damn right I do,” Redwane shouted back at him. “You’re deserting your
Emperor and your friend because this madman who roams the wilderness on his own
tells you to. For all you know he’s as mad as Torbrecan’s lunatics. Well I won’t
abandon Sigmar, and if you won’t march to Reikdorf, I’ll go alone.”

“Then you’ll die,” said Myrsa.

“So be it,” said Redwane. “The gods don’t seem to care one way or another.”

He spun on his heel and marched towards an archway to the city beyond,
feeling dead inside yet filled with fresh purpose and determination.

“Damn you, Redwane, I forbid you to go,” said Myrsa. “You are a warrior of
the White Wolves! Sworn to the defence of Middenheim.”

Redwane turned and tore the wolf pelt from his shoulders. He dropped the
cloak at his feet and unhooked the heavy warhammer from his belt. He let it
slide from his grip, and it fell with a clatter of finality to the flagstones.