03 - God King (42 page)

“I know the fear that consumes your innards like a snake, but have courage,
for we are living folk of flesh and blood! Feel your heart pumping that blood
around your body; it is hot and vibrant, filled with all the passions of the
living. Love, hate, joy, anger, fear, sorrow, happiness, exultation! Feel them
all and you will know you are alive, that your soul is free and you are a slave
to no one.”

Sigmar jabbed Ghal-Maraz towards the east and shouted his last demand. “It is
the dead beyond our walls that shuffle and wail, crawl and cower under the spell
of their dark master who should fear us! Though the sun is shrouded by shadow, I
call upon you to take up your weapons and sally forth with me to meet this foul
army.”

Thousands of swords were drawn from scabbards and raised high. Axes waved and
spears stabbed the air as the people gathered in Reikdorf screamed Sigmar’s
name. The walls shook with the deafening volume and the carrion birds perched on
the roofs and garrets of the city took to the air with raucous caws of fear. The
swelling roar spread through the city, taken up by every living soul in
Reikdorf, even those too far away to hear Sigmar’s words.

“Together we will defeat the legion of Nagash,” shouted Sigmar. “We will send
him screaming to the underworld that waits to consume him. Rally, people of the
Empire! Rally to me and fight!”

Sigmar led the way through the streets of Reikdorf towards the splintered
wreckage of the Ostgate. Behind him marched a column of tribesmen, thousands
upon thousands of warriors, men and women, old men and young, mothers,
daughters, fathers and sons. Those without swords carried iron-tipped cudgels,
butcher’s hooks, felling axes or clubs formed from broken furniture. Sigmar’s
army was everyone in Reikdorf, peasant and noble-born alike. They came with him,
chanting his name like a mantra or a prayer, their belief in him like a force of
nature or some divine mandate stolen from the gods themselves.

His boon companions rode at his side, and though this could very well be the
last day of the Empire, Sigmar faced it with pride and courage.

High Priestess Alessa was waiting for him at the Ostgate, surrounded by a
hundred warriors with their heavy broadswords drawn. She carried a heavy iron
box, banded with silver and secured by a lock of the same metal. Dark earth
clung to the box, as though it had only recently been dug from the ground.
Sigmar could feel the dark power bound to the dread artefact within, remembering
the foul deeds it had driven him to before.

“You are sure about this?” said Alessa, tears streaming down her face.

“I am,” said Sigmar. “There is no other way to face Nagash and live.”

Alessa nodded, as though she had been expecting this.

“You will need to be strong, Sigmar Heldenhammer,” she said. “It will tempt
you with all the secret things you hold deep in your heart.”

Sigmar shook his head with a derisive sneer. “It offered me my heart’s desire
once before and I rejected it. There is nothing else it can show me.”

“I hope you are right,” said Alessa, opening the box. “Or else it will not be
Nagash who destroys the lands of men. It will be you.”

The army of mortals poured from the rained gates of the city, forming a great
mass of flesh and blood in the land between the two forks of the river that
converged within its walls. Khaled al-Muntasir saw Sigmar at the heart of this
force, a figure in shining armour to match his own. A twinge of unease flickered
in the vampire’s chest, as though he were watching some magnificent Nehekharan
host arrayed for ritual battle instead of a pathetic, desperate horde of
mortals.

Sigmar took his place at the head of maybe three hundred horsemen, each atop
a powerful, armoured steed, and each bearing a mix of swords, axes and spears.
As more of the Emperor’s subjects marched from Reikdorf, a shape began to form
of Sigmar’s plan, and Khaled al-Muntasir laughed as his unease was replaced by
relief.

Another block of cavalry formed up beside Sigmar’s, and great wedges of
infantry formed up to either side of the horsemen. Some of these were
disciplined and marched like they’d been given some training, but others were
little better than ragged mobs. Give them a taste of blood and death and they’d
run easily enough. Yet more cavalry rode onto the northern flank of the army,
their armour red-painted and bedecked with suns. A handful of chariots and
painted warriors took position by the southern fork of the river, and the
vampire smiled as he recognised Freya’s barely-armoured form.

“Some mortals just never learn,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Siggurd.

“They think they can win,” said Khaled al-Muntasir. “Even after all that’s
happened, they still think they can win. Hope has undone them. Hope has sent
them out here to die ingloriously instead of accepting the inevitable and
prospering.”

“Sigmar will always think he can win,” said Markus. “Until the blade cleaves
his heart, I’ll not be too sure he’s wrong.”

Khaled al-Muntasir looked over at his creation and frowned. “You think that
pathetic force can best ours?” He looked out over Sigmar’s army, trying to
estimate how many warriors the Emperor had. “He has fifteen thousand men at
best. We outnumber him by more than two to one. He cannot possibly defeat so
many.”

Markus shrugged. “I’ve heard of battles lost with better odds.”

“Impossible,” sneered Khaled al-Muntasir.

“You don’t know Sigmar,” said Siggurd, his black steed pawing the ground and
snorting with impatience.

Once again, the tiny ember of unease in Khaled al-Muntasir’s chest was
fanned, but he quashed it ruthlessly. More than numbers would decide this
battle. The terrible fear of the dead would unman many of the Emperor’s
warriors, and for every one of them that fell, another fighter would be added to
the army of the dead. Though Markus and Siggurd had not yet developed their
sorcerous powers, his own were formidable. But even they were a pale shadow
compared to the magic of Nagash. With a word, the necromancer could command the
dead to rise, the living to wither and die, and curse the skies to bring forth
elemental fury.

No, his vampire counts were simply being overly cautious, yet the thought
would not leave him that this last, desperate battle was in fact a ploy to lure
them into a trap. His gaze swept the mortal army as it began a slow advance,
skirling war horns, trumpets and drums driving the army towards the silent host
of undead. Sigmar’s horsemen pulled ahead of the main battle line, riding at
speed towards the centre of Nagash’s army.

Khaled al-Muntasir followed the line of Sigmar’s charge, seeing where it led
with a derisive bark of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” asked Markus.

“Sigmar wants to duel,” he said in disbelief. “He thinks he can face Nagash.”

At the centre of the army of the dead, the pillar of terror and ice that was
Nagash bellowed with rage. Black lightning surged from the necromancer, a
furious, blitzing whirlwind of dark magic that consumed hundreds of revenants
around him. A roaring scream of rage and bitter spite cracked the sky, and a
cold rain began to fall as the wounded heavens wept over the lands of men.

Khaled al-Muntasir felt the terrible force of the necromancer’s rage and,
moments later, realised its source. Riding ever closer to the army of the dead,
Sigmar’s head was held high, and upon his brow was the glittering majesty of
Nagash’s crown. It pulsed with silver light, its magic unseen by mortals, but
visible as a ghostly corona of light around the Emperor’s head. Khaled
al-Muntasir had taken it for some cheap mortal bauble, enchanted with some hedge
wizard’s pitiful ward charms, but the dormant power coming off it in waves told
another story.

“Blood of the Ancients…” hissed Khaled al-Muntasir, angered at the sight of a
mere man wearing the crown crafted by the master of the dead. The incredible
power bound to its unknown metals was not for some fleshy sack of blood and meat
to wear, it was for the Lord of Undeath alone. Sigmar had worn the crown once
before and it had almost destroyed him, but his strength of will had been enough
to resist its siren song.

A terrible thought occurred to the vampire…

Had Sigmar mastered the power of the crown?

Was that what this was, a trap to lure the army of the dead to Reikdorf just
to wrest it from Nagash?

“Ride out,” commanded Khaled al-Muntasir. “Ride out now!”

Sigmar felt the awful weight of the crown at his brow, its immense power
threatening to crush his skull and invade his mind with all the terrible
temptations of power it had offered him before. He had had Wolfgart’s help to
resist it last time, now he was on his own. Black thoughts of vengeance, power
and dominance filled his mind, but knowing them for what they were, he was able
to push them away for now.

To march to war at the head of so great a host of men was a truly magnificent
honour, but facing them was an army of nightmares. The greenskin horde at Black
Fire had been larger, but so had his army. And this foe could return from the
dead…

A great mass of shambling dead opposed him, a ragged, shuffling horde of
corpses in numerous stages of decomposition. Many wore the garb of Empire
warriors or peasants, and he kept his anger in check, lest it feed the black
sorcery of the crown. Dark horsemen rode to each flank of the enemy army and
ravening packs of dead wolves and ghoulish cannibals roamed the banks of the
southern arm of the Reik. The Asoborns faced this scattered horde of teeth and
claws, led by Garr’s Queen’s Eagles and Freya herself. Sigmar saw the warrior
queen atop a commandeered chariot, with Sigulf acting as her rider and Fridleifr
as her spear bearer. Sigmar felt a knot in his gut at the sight of those boys
going into battle, but they had been blooded already and would be again if they
survived this fight.

Beside Sigmar, Wolfgart stood tall in his saddle, waving towards Maedbh. Her
chariot sped along beside the queen’s, with Ulrike and Cuthwin in the back, each
armed with bows and many quivers of arrows blessed by the priests of Taal.

Wenyld rode next to Wolfgart, holding Sigmar’s banner aloft with an
expression of disbelieving pride. The rippling battle flag with its glorious
beast of legend picked out in gold, represented everything this mortal army
stood for and was willing to die to defend. To carry it was the greatest honour,
one that had fallen to Pendrag before his death. Though Sigmar had thought
Wolfgart would want to bear the banner, he had instead preferred to carry his
enormous sword. Sigmar understood, and Wolfgart’s battle captain had taken up
the banner. Thinking back to how he had first encountered Wenyld, Sigmar was
pleased the banner would be borne by someone he knew.

Looking left and right, Sigmar saw his countrymen, warriors of all different
tribes and lands. Scattered among the battle-trained warriors were cheering
masses of farmers, craftsmen and labourers, men who had never faced battle until
now. As glad as Sigmar was to have them march out with him, he knew they could
not be relied upon to stand when the fighting became close and bloody.

In the moments before battle, the priests of each temple had given their
blessings to the army, but instead of retreating behind the walls, each took up
a heavy hammer, mace or cudgel and joined the battle line. With the exception of
the priests of Ulric, no holy men fought with the army of the Empire, but Sigmar
was happy to have the help of whichever god chose to aid them this day.

Far to Sigmar’s left the Red Scythes rode along the line of the northern fork
of the river, Leodan leading his warriors in an attempt to flank the enemy army
and put their lances and heavy swords to good use. Sigmar rode at the head of
one detachment of the Great Hall Guard, while Alfgeir commanded the other. Both
masses of heavy horse held the centre of the army, and Sigmar’s entire strategy
depended on their strength, speed and power.

Ahead of them, beyond the thousands of lurching corpses, ghostly revenants
and rank upon rank of skeletal warriors, was a towering figure wreathed in black
light and shimmering arcs of deathly energy. Sigmar could see Nagash clearly
now, a boon from the crown no doubt, and he saw the incredible, unknowable power
that seethed in his chest. Sustained by the darkest of magic, Nagash was
immortal, invincible and deadly.

He felt the black gaze of the necromancer slide over him, a creeping chill
that would have frozen his heart in an instant but for the power of the
dwarf-forged plate that encased him. No sooner had that icy gaze felt what sat
upon his brow than a hideous roar of fury shook the world and booming peals of
thunder rolled across the landscape. Sheets of rain fell in cascades and
brilliant traceries of lightning forked from the sky.

“Looks like you were right, old friend,” said Sigmar, thinking back to
Eoforth’s last words.

Even armed with that knowledge, Sigmar knew he would only get one chance to
land a killing blow. He took a deep breath, whispering a prayer to Ulric.

“Is it time?” said Wolfgart.

“It’s time,” said Sigmar. “Sound the horns.”

The order was given, and all along the Unberogen line, a rippling series of
horn blasts spread from the army’s centre. Pipes and drams joined the crescendo,
and even before the first echoes faded, the army of the Empire was on the
move.

Sigmar raked back his spurs and the gelding leapt to the charge. The ground
between the forks of the river was hard-packed and flat, ideal cavalry terrain,
and the sound of hoof beats was like the thunder booming in the heavens above
them. Hundreds of heavily armoured horsemen kicked their mounts from a canter to
a charge, yelling fearsome Unberogen war cries to banish the fear that tore at
every one of them.