We return to Glasgow, where an army of undead Etruscans does battle with the Rhenian horde. Britain’s fate hangs in the balance.
The streets are strewn with corpses. The city burns. But the Etruscan line holds firm. Aliens attack, wave after wave, and their bodies break upon our warriors’ shields. These men, called from the grave by a louse long dead, will be Scotland’s salvation.
The Rhenians, though they style themselves conquerors of interstellar space, have no weapons worthy of the name. For this we are thankful.
They sue for peace, and we grant them the peace they deserve: to each, eternal silence, endless night. Gifts our warriors know well.
Scotland survives. Britain survives. But we are not ignorant men. This is not how the story ends.
We know the cub’s death brings its mother howling from the woods, hungry for revenge.
We know the Rhenians have long memories and legions numberless as the stars. They will return for our children, or for their children.
The undead won’t save us then. There aren’t enough bodies in human history to hold them. They’ll come, we’ll die – and so the tale will end.