Suddenly, light. The blinding radiance of the day. A sun Archaon had not seen in what seemed like forever. Colours. Shapes. Trees. He was there. Back in the forests of the Empire. Smoke stung his nostrils. The smoke of destruction, utter and merciless. He could taste blood on his lips. His own and that of barbarian tribesmen whose slaughter hung on the air like a bloody mist. There was a barbarian before him. A Reiklander. A small mountain of muscle, decked in forest furs, trailing the long, unkempt mane of a savage. He was not alone. He introduced Archaon to his companion. A dwarf hammer. A warhammer of haft, rune and gold. A warhammer whose enchanted and unstoppable head trailed blood and destiny. Ghal Maraz. Skull-splitter.
And then Sigmar hit him.
Something broke deep within Archaon. His body smashed through the trees before bouncing off and around the thick trunks of Empire oaks and Reikland heartwoods. His armoured form spun like a discarded doll before coming to a stop in the leaves and the dirt. Archaon brought up his weapon, a sword that smoked with daemonic fury… but again Sigmar was there. The Unberogen had stormed through the forest at Archaon like a force of nature. Ghal Maraz smashed though the blade and it shattered like silver glass. The barbarian turned on his heel and brought the terrible weapon around and down.
When it hit Archaon it felt like an earthquake. The Chaos warrior was smashed down through the black forest earth, the stone and roots and into a hollow of his own making. Sigmar leapt into the pit, landing like a great cat. Like a wild lion, his face was contorted with noble savagery. Eyes narrow and teeth bared. He had confronted a thing of evil and now he was to destroy it. It was the end for Archaon. His God-King would destroy him. His God-King. Archaon reached back. Back through the blood and treachery – back to a time of simple falsehoods. A God-King and the tales that were told about him. Tales that false priests and templars promoted as belief, venerated and worshipped. Archaon knew this tale. He knew how it ended.
Morkar the Uniter. Favoured of darkness. Everchosen of the Chaos gods – smashed and defeated – pushed his helm up off his head and looked up at Sigmar Heldenhammer. The man who would be a god. Ghal Maraz came up, for it was his destiny to end the evil that had ridden out of the north on a deluge of Ruinous warrior-savages.
'Brinnan utva lioht,' Sigmar spat – a curse of his barbarian ancestors. An Unberogen curse Archaon had come to know in his former calling. Not only as his God-King's holy words but also a Sigmarite templar's way of life. Brinnan utva lioht. Burn by the light. 'Brinnan utva lioht,' Archaon spat and brought the great hammer down on Morkar's head with such righteous force that rather than split the Everchosen's skull, he obliterated it – hammering blood and bone into the forest bedrock.
