Time of Legends 02 - Empire by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

121

Sigmar had never seen its like in all the realms of man, though it was clearly a

city designed and raised by the artifice of his race. The towering buildings were

colossal and defied understanding, such was their magnificence. Enormous temples,

sprawling palaces and rearing statues filled the city, and its grandeur stole Sigmar’s

breath. Yet for all its glory, it was a dead place, a mockery of a city where lives were

lived and dramas, both vital and banal, were played out on a daily basis. As he

formed this last thought, the image wavered for a second, as though the city was no

more substantial than morning mist.

“What is this place?” asked Redwane, still keeping pace with the battle line as he

stared in horror as the sunken city. Collapsed portions of the city’s tallest towers

jutted through the ice, lying in crumbled piles of fallen masonry, sad remnants of

something wondrous that had passed into ruin and decay.

“I do not know,” answered Sigmar. “Perhaps this is Mourkain? When Lukas

Hauke said its name, I did not know whether it was a place or a person. Now I

know.”

“Mourkain? Never heard of it,” said Redwane, shaking his head as though to

deny the city’s existence. “Surely if there was a city here, we’d know about it?”

“Perhaps,” said Sigmar, tearing his eyes from the ghostly city’s wreckage as a

shimmering mist formed around the battlements of the gleaming castle. “I think

maybe that we are seeing an echo of something that has long since vanished from the

face of the world. Hauke said that Morath survived the doom of Mourkain, so maybe

this is his way of remembering it.”

“What happened to it?”

“I will be sure to ask him,” said Sigmar dryly.

“Point taken,” said Redwane, grinning and hefting his hammer. The White Wolfs

earlier fears had receded in the face of imminent battle, and looking along the line of

determined faces of his warriors, his heart soared to see such strength. The fear that

had dogged the army’s every step into the mountains fled in the face of their courage.

Sigmar felt a cold gaze fasten upon him, and looked towards the dread tower at

the heart of the castle as Ghal Maraz grew hotter in his grip.

Atop the bone-white tower stood a figure wreathed in black, a slit of darkness

against the sky that seemed to swallow the light around it. Robes of night billowed in

ethereal winds, and even from this distance, Sigmar saw the pale, ravaged features of

a thing more dead than alive. The necromancer carried an ebony staff, and upon his

skull-like brow he wore a glittering golden crown that seemed to pulse in time with

Sigmar’s heartbeat.

“Morath,” hissed Sigmar as the dark sorcerer raised his staff. A withering light

pulsed from the ice, the rocks and the very air, as though some ancient rite were

nearing completion.

“Stand firm!” shouted Sigmar, his voice echoing from the valley sides to bolster

his warriors’ resolve. Shouts of alarm came from both flanks, and Sigmar saw scores

of shambling horrors climbing from the ruins of the towers that jutted through the

ice. Loathsome cadavers in tattered robes and rotted flesh lurched and stumbled from

the ruins in their dozens, and then in their scores.

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