by Warhammer
‘Close on ten thousand.’
‘What’s the score?’
‘Kelmain’s victory, which you foresaw, puts him one ahead.’
Arek shook his head and surveyed the blazing auras of his pet sorcerers. There was mockery there for certain.
‘You did not come here to discuss our chess playing, fascinating as it doubtless is,’ said Lhoigor.
‘What do you require of us?’
‘What I always do – information, prophecy, knowledge.’
‘Tzeentch has granted us a great deal of the latter.’
‘Sometimes too much I think,’ Kelmain said.
Arek was in no mood for the mages’ banter. Swiftly he outlined what he had seen on the walls today. He spoke of his presentiment of danger. He asked the mages to grant him a vision.
‘Your forebodings are doubtless justified,’ Kelmain said.
‘Sometimes Lord Tzeentch chooses to send warnings in just this manner,’ Lhoigor added.
‘I require more specific information than this,’ said Arek.
‘Of course,’ Kelmain said.
‘You wish to learn more of this axe and its bearer,’ Lhoigor said.
‘Naturally.’
‘You wish us to invoke the name of the Lord of Change and ask him to grant you the boon of a vision,’ Lhoigor said. His voice had taken on the quality and rhythm of a priest intoning a ritual. Arek nodded.
Kelmain gestured and an enormous metal sphere floated over to the centre of the tent. It hovered over the table. Lhoigor passed his hand over it, and the sphere split into two halves. They floated away from the mages, revealing the gigantic crystal orb that had rested within. ‘Look into the Eye of the Lord, and gain wisdom then,’ he said.
Arek looked.
In the depths of the sphere he saw a flickering light, the merest pinpoint, a distant flame that grew brighter as he watched. In it he thought he caught sight of a swirling distant realm that he recognised from his most troubled dreams, a place that had appeared to him in visions before at sites sacred to Lord Tzeentch. It was a place where the sky constantly changed colour as ripples of red and green passed across the cloudless firmament, where huge winged shapes with the bodies of men and the heads of predatory birds pursued the souls of their victims over an endless landscape, a land in the centre of which his god sat enthroned.
He felt other presences with him now, which he recognised as the souls of his magicians. He could hear their voices, far off in the distance, chanting the words of eldritch incantations. He saw as from afar a scene in the primordial dawn of time. A massive dwarf who somehow seemed more than a dwarf forged an axe that he recognised. The ancient dwarf beat the blade on an anvil through which the power of magic flowed strongly, patiently inscribed runes of surpassing might to be the bane of daemons. At the final stages of the ritual he invoked protective spells and the scene shimmered and vanished.
He sensed us, said the voice of Kelmain in his mind.
Nonsense, brother, the spell he invoked wards out all external magic, including ours.
I suppose you are right.
Arek wondered what they were talking about, and who they were watching. The scene shimmered and shifted, and he saw a huge dwarf similar to the first bearing two axes, the one he had seen forged and another that was akin to it. His head was shaved, tattoos covered his skin. He fought endlessly against the hordes of Chaos in a world where the sky was the colour of blood, and the sorcerer’s moon, Morrslieb, glared down huge and baleful from the skies.
The first great incursion, Kelmain’s voice whispered.
When the Lords of Chaos first gained entrance to this world, added Lhoigor.
Arek saw the dwarf lead armies from the fortress cities of the dwarfs. He saw the endless doomed campaign waged against the armies of Darkness. He saw the axe-bearer eventually depart into the Wastes on a quest to deny the Lords of Chaos entry into his world. He saw him cast away the axe, before his final doomed battle with the daemonic hordes.
The scene shifted once more. A young dwarf retrieved the axe and bore it to the great citadel of Karag Dum far to the north. The spell walls of that vast city blocked any further vision for millennia. Then the tides of Chaos advanced once more, in a time that Arek recognised. He saw Karag Dum encircled by the Wastes, and laid siege to by a mighty host of beastmen and daemons. He saw the spell walls broached by a great bloodthirster of Khorne, and viewed inside the city. He saw the bloodthirster vanquished by a distant descendant of the original axe wielder, who died even as he defeated the mighty winged daemon. He saw the axe being picked up by the son of the king who headed out into the Chaos Wastes to bring aid to his people. Arek witnessed his quest’s failure and the young dwarf dying alone and far from home, fighting his final battle against an army of beastmen after taking refuge in a cave.
The vision shimmered. A convoy of strange armoured vehicles moved across the Wastes. Wagons encased in steel, powered by muscles of the dwarfs within them.
Some sort of expedition, brother, to find the city of Karag Dum.
Doomed, of course, came the reply.
Arek saw the wagons being destroyed one by one, and their crews turning back, until one alone continued onwards. Eventually even that steel wagon was attacked and crippled by beastmen, and from it emerged three dwarfs: one an ancient with his long beard braided into two forks, one a huge brutish and very dim-looking warrior, the third a dwarf of stern visage.
Gotrek Gurnisson, he heard Kelmain whisper.
Yes, brother, came the reply.
All three were armed and armoured with potent weapons, and shielded by runic talismans. They fought their way clear of their destroyed wagon and began the long trudge back towards their so-called civilisation.
A storm sprang up, dust clouds rising from the Wastes. The three were separated. The one named Gotrek took shelter in the cave, until the huge mutant beastman within discovered him. Chased deep into the caves, he found the body of the young prince and the axe. He picked it up, and a link was forged between him and the weapon. Armed with its ancient might, he slew the beastman, and rejoined his two companions.
Another transition. Mountains. Blue skies. A long valley. The dwarf known as Gotrek was there. He was larger, more muscular and somehow grimmer.
The axe changes its wielder, brother. See, how he has grown.
The Slayer entered the valley; he looked happy to be there. In the valley, a burned village and many dead dwarfs. The dwarf entered one stone house. Within was sprawled the wretched body of a dwarf woman and her small baby.
The dwarf bowed his head. Perhaps he wept.
A further change. The hall of a dwarf lord. Gotrek Gurnisson was there once more, arguing passionately with a long-bearded noble on a throne. There was a sneer on the noble’s lips. He spoke mockingly, it seemed, and then made a chopping gesture with his hand, perhaps forbidding Gotrek to do whatever it was he wished to do, perhaps even ordering his death.
The other dwarf shook his head and grinned darkly. The lord ordered his troops to seize the axe-bearer. It was a mistake. A vast brawl began. Soon everyone in the hall save Gotrek was dead or fled. Dwarf corpses were lying everywhere.
The dwarf took up a knife and hacked away at his hair. Soon his head was shaved bare, save for a small rough strip. He strode out into the world, to do whatever it was he had to do.
A vast human city. Perhaps Altdorf, the Imperial capital.
A tavern. A tall blond-haired man, clearly drunk, was sitting down at the table with the dwarf who was obviously as drunk as he. The dwarf was older now. His hair was a huge crest, dyed orange. Tattoos covered his shaven head. He was scarred and there was a cynical twist to his mouth. The tall man was obviously distressed by something. They talked. And as they spoke the human became more and more excited. They drank more. The dwarf took up a knife and the unlikely pair swore some sort of blood-brothership oath.
Scenes came now in quick succession. Crypts beneath the Imperial city. A magician performe
d a ritual of cosmic evil only to be interrupted by the pair. A small village in the wilds, terrorised by a winged daemon until the two of them ended its reign of terror. A forest at night; Morrslieb grinned down. The two did battle with mutants and cultists, eventually rescuing a small child from their clutches. A wagon train headed south, fighting goblins and undead monsters as it went. The pair were there always, fighting like devils. At the gate of a burning fort, the Slayer defeated a whole tribe of wolf riders, losing an eye in the process. Arek saw a ruined dwarf city and battles with monsters, and meetings with ghosts.
An accelerating succession of scenes blurred by. Encounters with mages and werewolves and wicked men. Buildings burned in another Imperial city as an army of ratmen stalked the streets. A massive airship crossed the Chaos Wastes and arrived at Karag Dum. The bloodthirster returned, only to be defeated once more by the pair of adventurers. They encountered a mighty dragon and slew it. They battled with an army of orcs and somehow survived.
As he watched, it became obvious to Arek that whatever else the pair are, they are heroes, and somehow it is their destiny to oppose Chaos. Or perhaps it is not their doom, but that of the axe. He cannot tell. It is something to discuss with his pet wizards.
Suddenly the cascade of visions stopped. One further change charged the air. A deep sense of foreboding filled Arek. The scene went black and he was confronted for the briefest of instants by a gigantic face whose features appeared to shimmer and change, sometimes resembling a bird-headed daemon, sometimes resembling an incredibly beautiful man with eyes of glowing light. He knew at once that he was gazing on Lord Tzeentch. The being smiled mockingly at him, and a last scene appeared before his eyes.
Buildings burned. Horned warriors clashed with humans in the street. He saw himself lying on the ground, his armour breached and broken, his headless corpse sprawled in the snow. All around were the mangled bodies of beastmen and Chaos warriors. He saw himself locked in combat with the dwarf. Arek found himself enthralled waiting for the moment of his inevitable triumph.
The scene went blank to be replaced by another. He saw the axe flashing in to sever his head.
A third moment of vision appalled him: Gotrek Gurnisson and his human companion standing over his corpse, wounded but triumphant, Arek’s severed head held in the man’s hand. Arek stared in shock at the picture, and it began to fade. He stood stunned in the centre of the wizards’ tent.
‘Your visions have done nothing to reassure me,’ he said eventually. Kelmain looked at Lhoigor. Once again Arek was uncomfortably aware that some sort of voiceless communication was taking place between them.
‘Such visions are not always accurate,’ Kelmain said eventually, stroking his pale temple with his golden nails.
‘Sometimes malicious daemons interfere for their own purposes. They have a strange sense of humour, our elder brothers,’ added Lhoigor.
‘Did you see what I saw?’ Arek asked.
‘We saw one of the dwarf ancestor gods making the axe. We saw much of its history. We saw the siege of Karag Dum. We saw Gotrek Gurnisson receive the axe. We saw… your death.’
‘How is that possible? I thought the Eye was supposed only to show the past.’
‘The Eye is a peculiar artefact. It can only reveal certain things–’ began Lhoigor.
‘It normally shows only the past,’ Kelmain interrupted. ‘Or what people think is the past.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Arek. Kelmain looked at Lhoigor. Arek knew they were trying to decide which of them would explain things to him.
‘The realm of Chaos from which all magic eventually flows is another plane roughly contiguous with this one–’ Lhoigor began.
‘It is composed entirely of energy–’ Kelmain interrupted again.
‘Which can be drawn on by those who are gifted,’ finished Lhoigor.
‘So?’ asked Arek.
‘There are links between the two planes. Strong emotions, hopes, dreams, fears, all stir the seething sea of energy which is the true realm of Chaos,’ Kelmain said.
‘Events that create those strong emotions can leave an impression on the plane of Chaos. Battles, murders and such like. So can dreams and fears. These impressions float around like–’
‘Like bubbles,’ Lhoigor said. ‘The Eye can draw those impressions to us, if invoked correctly. It takes an artefact of such power to sift through the swirling vortices of energy and select the ones the wielder wants.’
‘You are saying though that what we saw is not necessarily true.’
‘I believe most of it is true in the essentials. It may not be entirely accurate but it is accurate enough in most respects.’
‘What about the final vision?’
‘That might have been something you brought to the ritual yourself,’ said Kelmain.
‘A projection of your own hidden fears,’ Lhoigor added mockingly.
‘Or it might have been a warning sent by Lord Tzeentch, foretelling what will happen if you continue down this path.’
‘It is difficult to know. Such visions are always cryptic.’
‘So are your interpretations, it seems.’
‘We are only humble servants of our esteemed Lord,’ said Lhoigor. Arek was never sure whether he meant Tzeentch or himself when he spoke this way. He suspected the ambiguity was deliberate.
‘You know this dwarf,’ said Arek.
‘We know of him,’ Kelmain corrected. ‘He has inadvertently foiled some of our schemes in the past.’
‘We suspect he is, however unwittingly, a chosen champion of the enemies of our cause.’
‘Certainly, he has been warped by that potent weapon he carries.’
‘If the dwarf were dead that future can never happen,’ Arek said. ‘Without him to wield the axe, it cannot slay me.’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps the axe will find another wielder.’ Arek considered this for a moment then came to a decision. The dwarf would have to be eliminated, and that axe would need to vanish.
‘You have agents in the city?’
‘Many.’
‘See to it the dwarf and his human henchman die. See that the axe is lost and not found again soon.’
‘We shall do our best,’ Kelmain said, his mocking smile widening.
‘If the vision really came from Lord Tzeentch it would be blasphemy to try and interfere with the destiny he plans for you.’
‘Nonetheless do it.’
‘As you wish.’
FOUR
Ulrika glanced around the chamber in disgust. It was not her surroundings that she found intolerable, it was the people in them, or most of them anyway. The chamber was far more austerely furnished than anything she would have expected from a decadent southern noble. There were none of the elaborate carvings and gargoyles that covered the walls of so many of the buildings in the city, only weapons and banners.
The duke himself cut a fine martial figure as he sat upright on the polished wooden throne. He was a handsome slender man in early middle age. He had black hair going to grey. On his face, the long drooping moustaches favoured by the southern aristocracy actually looked fine. They made him look like one of the wild riders of Gospodar legend. He had a disconcerting intensity to his stare but Ulrika could see nothing to give credence to the rumours that he was mad.
Some people claimed that Duke Enrik’s tendency to see the worshippers of Chaos everywhere was a sign that he had inherited his father’s insanity. To Ulrika his support of witch hunters and constant persecution of mutants seemed only sensible precautions against the Great Enemy. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps decadent Imperial customs were taking root even here in the great citadels of Kislev. She smiled ironically at her thoughts. She herself was no better. Hadn’t she taken a decadent southerner for a lover? Hadn’t she taken advice from Max Schreiber, a wizard, a man who only a few months ago she would have been willing to bet was a worshipper of Chaos himself? No, she was in no position to criticise these people. She knew that intellectually. It was not goi
ng to stop her from doing it though.
Beside the prince’s throne was a large stove that radiated heat against the autumnal chill. A long-bearded chamberlain carrying a heavy wooden staff stood to the left of the ducal throne. Slightly in front of the throne stood two armoured giants of the ducal guard, each armed with a halberd, and a head taller than any other man in the room. Ten strides ahead of the throne was a rope barrier behind which waited petitioners. They were a motley crew, wealthy merchants, lesser nobles and a few ragged-looking men of indeterminate profession. They might have been wizards, or priests or professional agitators for all Ulrika knew.
Looking around at the others in the chamber, she wondered how Enrik put up with it. The behaviour of these people was enough to drive the sanest man crazy. At the front of the room were a group of men from the merchant’s guild protesting about the latest ducal command to freeze prices. It seemed that not even the presence of that vast Chaos horde outside the gates was to be allowed to interfere with a man’s right to seek the best price his goods might command. The fact that exercising that right might lead to starvation for the majority of the people and food riots did not appear to concern them. Ulrika recognised the fat man from the watchtower among the merchants. He seemed to have gotten over his fears now, and was far more concerned that he was not being allowed to sell his grain for ten times the price it had commanded a month ago. Merchants, thought Ulrika, with the warrior-nobles’ usual contempt for the rising middle class. They had no honour. Even with the city enmeshed in a life or death struggle they thought only of their own profits.
Duke Enrik seemed to share her opinion. ‘It seems to me,’ he said in his high-pitched voice, ‘that keeping our men in the field and our population content and supportive of their duke is far more important at this moment than the profits of the guild.’
‘But your grace–’ the fat merchant began.
‘And furthermore,’ the duke continued as if the merchant had never spoken, ‘it seems to me that the people who are most likely to think otherwise are Chaos worshippers and followers of the Dark Powers themselves.’