by Warhammer
Recently they always had this aura of superior knowledge about them that Arek found intensely aggravating. Could they not see that the other warlords were treacherous fools? That taking Praag before winter set in would give his army a secure base of operations in the southlands? Late summer was the perfect time for a surprise attack since no one expected armies to move then. They had quite missed the point that it was impossible to keep from moving in that direction. Some instinct appeared to be driving every follower of the Great Powers south. Every seer and tribal shaman in the Wastes was prophesying that the Time of Changes had come. Every oracle that spoke claimed the four Great Powers were, for once, united in their determination to cleanse the lands of men. His wizards had not seen that if Arek had not come south his followers would have deserted him and flocked to the banners of some bolder chieftain. As it was marching now, his army was being swollen by tens of thousands of tribesmen and beastman, all answering a call that sounded deep in their souls.
Arek studied the mage. He could see the aura of power shimmer around the albino. It was one of the many gifts Tzeentch had granted him. Blackstaff was a mighty mage. Tzeentch had granted him powers greater than any mage save his twin but it was obvious he was no warrior. ‘It is a beginning.’
‘Aye, that it is,’ agreed Lhoigor Goldenrod, flexing his yellow talons. His giggle was high-pitched and irritating. Arek longed for the day when he would no longer need their services and could offer the mages’ souls up to his patron. ‘And what a beginning!’
Like his twin, he could not resist allowing just a hint of irony to show in his voice. Arek looked to see who had taken note of their exchange. Bubar Stinkbreath, the bloated follower of Nurgle, was watching them. His pustulent face showed no sign of having overheard anything, but then it wouldn’t. Bubar was as wily as he was diseased. Lothar Firefist, the chief follower of the Blood God in Arek’s army was too busy cheering on his fellow Khorne worshippers to pay any attention to what Arek and his wizards were saying. Most of the time, he could barely keep his contempt from showing anyway. Sirena Amberhair, the hermaphrodite warlord of Slaanesh, was licking her lips at the sight of the combat. It was hard to tell if she had noticed anything. She was nearly as crafty as Bubar, when not lost in the drug dreams the black lotus brought her.
Watching the beastmen charge forward to certain death, Arek felt nothing but contempt. Foul, idiotic, weak creatures, he thought. Brutish and stupid. Fit only to die in the service of their lords and masters. Plenty more where they came from at least. Tens of thousands of them were drifting down from the Wastes, drawn to Arek’s banner by the promise of plunder and carnage. Still, he thought, even such petty creatures can be the agents of destiny, even if they don’t know it.
One of the many differences between Arek and those brutes was that he knew who he was. He had always known even centuries ago, when he had a different name, and a different life, as a young lord in the Empire. He had known he was destined for greater things than other men. He had not let the fact he was not the eldest of his line stand in his way. He had made sure he had acquired the power he deserved. Poison, convenient accidents and sorcery had ensured he inherited all of his late and unlamented father’s estates. For a while that had been enough. He had riches, he had power, and he had women. But it had not been enough. Even then unconsciously he heard the call of greater things. His fate would not let him live as other men lived, or die like any mere mortal.
The sorcerer who had first seen to the disposal of a jealous brother had proven a rich source of other knowledge, of other boons. He was a weak man who had thought the worship of Chaos an easier path to the wealth and respect he craved than study and hardship. Still, weak as he was, he had served his purpose. His grimoires had revealed certain ancient truths to Arek. They had taught him that it was possible for certain worthy men to transcend mortality, to acquire almost limitless power, if only they would agree to serve the hidden Powers of Chaos, the powers which Arek now knew secretly ruled the universe. The man had been a fool but Arek still felt a certain gratitude to him.
It had taken Arek years to learn more. He had infiltrated certain hidden cults, fools who believed they knew the truth about the Powers of Chaos and who sought to advance themselves using its influence. Down the years, despite investigations by witch hunters, and secret wars with rival cults, Arek had slowly found out what he needed. He had learned that in order to find the power and longevity he needed to achieve his destiny, he would have to visit the Chaos Wastes, and dedicate himself to the Changer of the Ways at his shrine there.
It had been a long hard journey, but Arek knew now that it had to be, for the journey was a test, intended to weed out those not strong enough, or dedicated enough or clever enough to enjoy the blessings of the supreme lords of Chaos. Just as the cults had been a proving ground where only those who really sought for the knowledge they needed would ever find the truth. Of course, it had not seemed that way to him then, but over the years he had learned the truth for himself. A lesser man would not have survived the trials Arek had endured, but that was only just. Lesser men did not deserve the rewards that Arek had received.
At first he had not possessed the wisdom to see them as rewards. Then he had been horrified by what he had seen as the stigmata of Chaos appearing on his body. Now he knew the stigmata had been granted to him for a reason. He had always been vain of his personal appearance, had always revelled in the good looks that made him attractive to women. When his features started to melt and run, after the first warp storm he endured in the Wastes, he had thought that he would go mad. He had not been able to look at his reflection without shivering. It was a weakness of course, one that he had soon overcome.
And he had been rewarded. The Great Mutator had gifted him with increased insight and wisdom. Many of the hidden secrets of the universe had been revealed to him.
When he had found the hidden shrine to Tzeentch, buried deep in a crystal cave in the Mountains of Madness, he had been judged worthy to become a Chaos warrior. The black armour had been grafted to his body. Its gifts of increased strength and resilience had become his, and he had ridden out into the world to spread change and terror in the name of his master. He had joined a warband, and fought his way to leadership, for as all the great powers, Tzeentch liked to pit his worshippers against each other so that they could prove their worthiness for his favour.
Arek had been worthy indeed. He had led his followers to victory after victory, showing a deep shrewd grasp of the tactics needed for victory and the political insight needed to rise within the ranks of the chosen. In quick succession he had bested the bellowing Khornate warrior Belal, the foul disease-ridden champion of Nurgle, Klublub, and the decadent perfumed but deadly pleasure-knight of Slaanesh, Lady Silenfleur. He had made pilgrimages to all the sacred Tzeentchian sites within the Wastes, and acquired greater knowledge and magical power, as well as many runic refinements to his armour and weapons.
It was during this period that he had first encountered the twin wizards who were to be so instrumental to his rise to power, Kelmain Blackstaff and Lhoigor Goldenrod. They had first met in the caverns of Nul deep beneath the Mountains of Madness when Arek had made his offering of thirteen captured souls of champions of rival powers to Lord Tzeentch. During his vigil daemons had whispered many secrets to him, and the twins had helped him interpret those cryptic warnings. One of those secrets had brought them all here today. For he knew the reason why Skathloc had tried so hard to take the citadel of Praag, and what lay concealed there still.
The twins had recognised his great destiny and aligned themselves with him, lending him their sorcerous powers, advising him on matters magical and occasionally about other things. He had usually followed their advice, and since they never challenged his decisions, never disobeyed his orders, he had been happy to have them in his warband. Indeed, their powers of divination and prophecy had proven so accurate that he had found them to be his most useful servants.
They became good
luck charms, in a way, for soon after they joined him, Arek began to enjoy even greater success than he had before. His forces swelled as beastmen and lesser champions swarmed to his banner. Their magic had helped him acquire the first of his fortresses within the Chaos Wastes when their spells had opened the gates to the Citadel of Ardun on the rocky crags above the Vale of Desolation. Of course, he had led the warriors within and had slain the Ancient of Ardun with his own hands but they had certainly been helpful.
They had been more than helpful when he retrieved his invincible armour from the Vaults of Ardun. They had somehow known the spells that would unlock the armour and then bind it to his body. Since that day, as they had prophesied, he had proven invulnerable to every weapon forged by mortal or daemon.
Their advice had helped him form his great coalition of the followers of Tzeentch. They had told him who was trustworthy and who was treacherous, and they seemed to have infallible noses for sniffing out those who plotted against him. It was they who warned him that his trusted lieutenant Mikal the Lion-Headed plotted to have him assassinated and overthrown. He had swiftly turned the tables on his treacherous follower when they were alone in his throne room, and Mikal sought to take him by surprise.
They had forewarned him of the great ambush planned for his forces at Khaine’s Defile, and allowed him to surprise those would-be ambushers in turn. Their spells had turned the sky red with magical energy and helped him win a victory against a force ten times the size of his own.
They had woven him around with spells that had made him invulnerable to sorcerous attack and that had allowed him victory even over daemons. Over the centuries they had helped him acquire the power and prestige that had eventually enabled him to forge this grand coalition consisting even of followers of the other three great powers. Arek knew that this was the final culmination of his destiny.
Over the long millennia very few warlords had the charisma, the military skill, the drive and the sheer ability to forge such a coalition. Skathloc Ironclaw had made the last one over two centuries ago, and Arek knew that he was the first man since then to have welded such a force together. True, at least three other warlords had forged forces of similar size and had now emerged from the Wastes, but in the end, it would be Arek who would prove triumphant. Victory here at Praag would give him the prestige to unite all of the Chaos worshippers behind him.
If everything went according to his plans, he would also be the last. For he intended to bring the entire world under the sway of his power, and extend the Chaos Wastes from pole to pole. He knew that given time he could do it.
The twins had certainly been useful, but it seemed now to Arek that their usefulness was coming to an end. They had resisted his plan to come south so soon. They had wanted him to wait longer, acquire even more force. They had muttered their usual cryptic warnings about the omens not being right. They had claimed that the paths of the Old Ones would soon be open, and there would be no need for these great marches. They had not seen that the assembled warleaders were already chafing at the bit, eager to be started and needing a campaign of conquest to keep them unified. For the first time since they had acknowledged his destiny to rule, Arek had found himself at odds with his pet wizards.
It was a situation that would swiftly be rectified. Powerful as they were, there were plenty more sorcerers willing to follow Tzeentch’s favoured champion. Once this city was taken, and the great campaign launched with a resounding victory that would weld his horde together, Arek vowed he would see to the troublesome wizards’ replacement.
Right now he returned his attention to the ongoing battle. The beastmen were falling in their thousands to the human war engines. It did not matter. Arek did not seriously believe they had any chance of taking the city. He merely wanted the defenders to realise the strength of the foe they faced, that he could afford to squander ten thousand such lackeys if he wanted to, and it would not put the slightest dent in the numbers of his horde. It would demoralise the defenders when they realised the sheer scale of the opposition they faced. In a prolonged siege it would affect the outcome significantly.
Besides, all of the attacking beastmen were followers of Khorne. They had been desperate for battle, and Arek doubted that he could restrain them or Lothar Firefist, the warlord who led them, much longer without them turning on the rest of the host. It was the main difficulty leading a coalition like this. Giving them a common foe was sometimes more important than mere military utility.
Even as he watched he saw that the attackers had reached the wall. Boiling oil splashed their fur, as the defenders upended cauldrons of it onto the beastmen. Ever-burning alchemical fire turned them into blazing humanoid torches. Even so a few ladders still reached the wall, and a few beastmen swarmed up them. For a moment it looked like some of them would succeed in clearing a space on the battlements and allow their brethren to swarm over. By sheer berserk fury, it looked like they might carry the day. That would be good, Arek decided.
Then he saw a dwarf and some humans appear from the base of one of the towers. A bolt of lightning danced along the walls, slaying beastmen. There was something about that dwarf, an aura of power, of destiny that was obvious to Arek’s altered vision. One of the men who followed him had the same aura, although to a lesser degree. With a shock Arek realised that he recognised the axe carried by the dwarf. He had seen it wielded once before, during the assault on the citadel of Karag Dum. It was a potent thing, woven round with baneful runes, and perhaps powerful enough to breach even Arek’s armour. The sight of it filled him with foreboding.
Perhaps he should consult with his pet wizards about this, Arek decided. He had a reason to let them live for just a little while longer.
Felix smashed his sword through the skull of the beastman, and looked around. The battlements were clear. All of the beastmen had either been cast down to the ground below, or were dead. He glanced over at Gotrek. The Slayer stood nearby covered in filth and matted gore, a sour expression on his face. He looked surprised and disappointed at finding himself still alive, hardly surprising since his avowed intention in life was to find a heroic death in battle. Nearby, Ulrika and Max Schreiber stood blinking in the gloom. Sweat ran down their faces. Ulrika looked as if she had been working in a butcher’s shop. Small clouds of smoke drifted up from Max’s hands. Felix was glad to see that they were all still alive.
It had been touch and go there for a while. Even given the huge numbers of beastmen in the assault, upon seeing the carnage wreaked on them by archers and siege engines, Felix had been surprised that any had reached the walls. It was a testimony to the sheer strength and ferocity of the Chaos worshippers that they had managed to do so. That they had come so close to sweeping over the outer walls on the first day of the battle was a scary thought. Even more terrifying was the memory of the sheer fury and utter lack of concern for their own safety with which they had thrown themselves forward.
From the faces of the defenders visible all around him, he could see that they were just as concerned as he was. They had not expected this. They had considered their city walls impregnable and with some justification. Archers looked out of every gap in the battlements. Beside them were well-armoured men-at-arms. Heated pots of boiling oil stood ready to be poured down on the attackers. Engines to lob pots of alchemical fire into the enemy stood on every tower top. And all of these preparations had proven barely sufficient. They had almost been swept away by the sheer fury of the attackers. Felix shuddered. If it was like this on the first day, what was it going to be like once the siege was in full swing, and the attackers had time to raise war engines, and bring foul sorcery to bear?
And there was still the possibility of treachery. Looking at the seething mass of Chaos worshippers out there, Felix didn’t even want to consider this. It was frightening enough having them outside the city. The prospect that some of them might already be within was a fearsome one.
Arek strode confidently into the magicians’ tent. It was quiet inside. Somehow a
ll the roars and shouts and bellows of the horde were left behind as soon as he entered. The air stank of the hallucinogenic incense pouring from the brazier near the entrance. He looked around and noted all the massive chests and intricate paraphernalia of sorcery. He saw sandalwood caskets from far Cathay, and strange dragon-inscribed lanterns from legendary Nippon. The skeleton of a mastodon loomed in the darkness. Shadowy presences flickered just under the drooping canvas of the roof. Not for the first time, he wondered how Kelmain and Lhoigor fitted all of this stuff into their pavilion. It sometimes seemed to him that it was larger on the inside than it was on the outside. Arek supposed it was possible. They were after all mighty mages.
The twin sorcerers sat cross-legged, floating a hand’s breadth above an Arabyan carpet. Their eyes were closed. Pieces on the chessboard in front of them moved without a hand being laid on them. Arek glanced at the position. From where he stood it was obvious that the game was going to be a win for white. It always was when the twins played. They were so well matched that whoever held that slight advantage inevitably won. He reached down and moved the pieces through the combination that led to inevitable victory.
‘Why do you always do that?’ Kelmain asked, smiling sardonically.
‘I fail to understand why you play each other at all,’ Arek said. He had always found the twins’ good humour vaguely annoying. They seemed to share some secret that they did not want to tell the world, but which caused them great amusement. It was a testimony to their great power that they still lived. Men had died for a lot less than that in the Chaos Wastes.
‘One day we hope to establish which of us is the better player.’
‘How many games have you played now?’