by Warhammer
Twenty-Three
The Huntsman
Adhema crept across a ledge high on the southern face of Lion Crag, her mouth thick with the taste of arcane blood. She’d fed on one of the raven-warriors to sate her growing hunger, and the blood had been spiced with sorcery. It was a curious taste, lacking in the sourness one usually found in such corrupted individuals; perhaps it was down to the form the corruption took. Something to investigate another time, she suspected, as she paced along above the battle.
The skaven had, for the most part, fled the moment their great war-engine had begun to lurch away. Between the daemons and the Thunderers, they’d quickly lost whatever stomach they had for battle. Now the three-sided struggle had narrowed to two, as Stonehelm’s warriors pitted their accuracy against the capering changespawn.
Despite her disdain for the cloud-grubbing duardin, Adhema was forced to admit that they were formidable, in their way. Stonehelm’s warriors had formed a compact firing line on the ground, and were keeping the daemons at bay with an efficiency born, no doubt, of experience. Even so, the end was clear enough to one with the wit to see it. The duardin, for all their prowess, would be overwhelmed eventually or forced to retreat.
She looked up, searching for the Zank. The aether-ship was in pursuit of the slowly rolling war-machine. She wondered, briefly, whether the others had made it aboard, and whether they’d found the spear. It hadn’t been in any of the caves she’d searched during the fighting. She hissed in growing frustration and turned her attention back to the battle below. A tawny shape caught her eye, and she leapt from the ledge, down the slope, following it.
The demigryph bounded from rock to rock, moving with animal grace. Her fur was matted with blood and ichor, but her strength was undimmed. Roggen hunched low in the saddle, a weapon in either hand. The knight had fought with brutal joy, and Adhema had come away with a wary appreciation for his skill. Part of her wished to see the carnage a full lance of such warriors could inflict.
The knight seemed to have found new prey. She followed from above, curious. The demigryph pounced, bearing a daemon to the ground and crushing it. Roggen lashed out with mace and sword, driving back others, until he’d cleared a path to – ah.
Adhema sank to her haunches and smiled. The priestess. Nyoka was down, surrounded by raven-warriors, her face a crimson mask. Roggen had spotted them. Harrow crashed among them, scattering the feathered warriors. A blast of sorcerous fire alerted her to the presence of the crystal-helmed sorcerer – Yuhdak, he’d called himself.
She crouched, watching as Harrow was knocked sprawling by the blast, hide smoking. Roggen staggered free of the saddle as the raven-warriors converged on him through the smoke wafting across the field. She sprang quickly down the rocks, intercepting one. Her blade punched through the warrior’s back and out his chest before he registered her presence. She could not say why she was bothering to intervene. The fewer of Grungni’s servitors who lived, the fewer she might have to kill later.
But the thought displeased her. It grated against the shards of honour that remained to her. And in any event, she owed the knight a debt. He’d saved her. So she would save him. Fair was fair.
She crossed blades with a second warrior as Roggen dispatched a third. He hadn’t noticed her yet, his eyes locked on Yuhdak. He crushed his opponent’s skull and sprang at the sorcerer, roaring. Yuhdak gestured, and purple fire enveloped Roggen’s hand and forearm as the mace descended. The weapon burst like an overripe fruit, and the haft coiled about the knight’s arm. It burrowed into his flesh, sprouting pale thorns.
Adhema winced as Roggen screamed and fell back, his arm burning with the raw heat of change. The flesh of his hand ran like water, merging with the weapon, sprouting delicate gossamer fins and clumps of blinking eyes.
‘No,’ Roggen snarled, and raised his sword. He brought it down, chopping through his own forearm with one blow. She blinked in surprise, impressed despite herself. Few mortals had the stomach for such measures. His malformed limb flopped like a dying fish as it sprouted jointed legs and the bleeding stump ruptured into a leech-like maw of glinting teeth. Cradling his wounded arm to his chest, he hacked at the pulsing lump of meat.
‘Fascinating,’ Yuhdak said as he watched. He extended his hand. Changefire quickened about his fingers, and motes of purple and azure swirled through the air. ‘What will you do, I wonder, when I transform your other arm? Will you gnaw it off, like a beast?’
‘If I must,’ Roggen panted, face pale with pain. The smell of his blood, like sweet nectar and wet bark, wafted towards her. She beat aside her opponent’s blade and caught him by the throat. A flick of her wrist was enough to snap his neck. She let the body fall, intent on getting to Yuhdak.
Before she could, however, Harrow, her fur blackened and her feathers seared away, gave a screech and leapt. Her iron-hard beak clamped down on Yuhdak’s shoulder and he gave a startled cry as the demigryph jerked him from his feet and flung him aside. Before he could rise, the beast was on him, her talons tearing through armour and robes alike. Yuhdak screamed and lashed out with his blade. Harrow squalled and lurched back, before slumping wounded to the ground.
Yuhdak clambered to his feet. ‘Filthy animal,’ he hissed, gesturing with his bloody blade. ‘I’ll make something more useful out of you, beast.’
‘You will do nothing,’ Roggen roared, as he lunged forwards. Their blades crashed together. Even wounded, the blood draining from him, Roggen was fast. And strong. Every blow rocked the slimmer, lighter sorcerer back. But for every one blow Roggen landed, Yuhdak landed two. It was taking its toll, Adhema saw. A few moments later, after a wild blow, the knight staggered and sank to one knee, chest heaving. Yuhdak raised his blade.
Adhema darted forwards, through the smoke. Her blade slid up, between the plates of Yuhdak’s armour. He grunted in shock and made to backhand her. Adhema ducked nimbly beneath the blow and stabbed him again. Another thrust, and the sorcerer staggered. She grinned as the circling daemons began to thin and fade.
She paced after him as he stumbled away. ‘You’re not the one I am after, but given the insult you delivered me in the forest, I’ll settle. Perhaps I’ll draw up what’s left of your soul afterwards, and make it my hound.’
‘No,’ Yuhdak hissed. He flung out his hand, staining the air with his blood. The substance of reality bubbled and split, revealing giggling, grinning pink faces. Long arms, topped by overlarge paws, stretched out, clawing for the vampire, gripping at her arms and legs, drawing her inexorably towards the gap in the air. A voice rose up a moment later, and the faces wavered and vanished as the spell was broken. Adhema staggered, off-balance, and turned, seeking the cause of her salvation.
Nyoka was on her knees, leaning against the haft of her hammer, one eye a swollen ruin, but the other gleaming with fervour. Voice hoarse and cracked with pain, she croaked the words of a prayer. The few remaining daemons wavered and burst, like soap bubbles. Adhema met her gaze and nodded in thanks.
When she turned back, Yuhdak was gone. She snarled a curse, and whirled, seeking any sign of him. But the sorcerer had vanished. She turned back to the others. Nyoka had dragged herself towards Roggen, who lay limp on the ground. Adhema went to them, the smell of the knight’s blood thick on the air. Nyoka had torn off a section of her robe, and was using it to bind up the knight’s wounded limb.
‘Will he live?’
Nyoka looked up. ‘If Sahg’mahr wills it.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘He is strong, though. Like a tree. He can afford to lose a branch or two.’
Adhema sneered and bared her teeth. ‘Good enough, I suppose.’ She heard a clatter and saw bulky shapes moving towards them through the smoke. Stonehelm and his Thunderers – those who’d survived their fight with the daemons. A sudden explosion caused her to turn.
The skaven war-machine hadn’t got far. It wobbled on its axis, venting fire and smoke, seemingly about to topple
over. She glanced at Nyoka as another explosion ripped through the great machine. ‘Best keep praying, priestess. I have a feeling Volker and the others might need it.’
Volker fired. He cursed a moment later as Lugash slammed into the deathbringer, knocking him back, and out of the ball’s path. The ball struck the rim of the orrery and ricocheted into the device, bursting the chains that held the spear in place.
The great black blade swung down, slicing the air with a lingering hiss of what might have been satisfaction. Lugash roared and reached for it, leaving his war-iron embedded in the deathbringer’s shoulder. The deathbringer caught his wrist and wrenched the doomseeker away, slamming him face-first into the dais. The Khornate warrior drove a bone-rattling kick into the dazed duardin’s side, sending him rolling down to the deck. He turned and reached for the spear. Gung twisted in its chains, stretching towards the warrior.
‘Zana,’ Volker shouted as he tossed aside his rifle and drew his repeater pistols. Skaven scampered past him, seeking to escape. The former freeguilder was already darting up onto the dais, sword out. Her blade slashed down, drawing blood from the warrior’s thickly muscled arm. He roared and reached for her throat, catching her next slash with his bare hand. Her sword snapped in his fist as she ducked beneath his clawing grip. Still holding the jagged stump of the hilt, she went for him again, seeking to drive what was left of her blade into his exposed throat.
The deathbringer slammed the broken tip of her blade down, through her forearm. Coins clattered free of the vambrace as Zana screamed. She snatched a knife from her belt and sank it into her opponent’s exposed thigh. ‘Shoot him, Volker,’ she gasped.
The deathbringer roared and slapped her from the dais, to join Lugash in a heap on the floor.
Volker shot him. Both repeater pistols exploded in fire, filling the air with lead shot. The deathbringer jerked back with a bellow of pain and surprise. He flailed backwards, hand groping. Even as Volker tossed aside his emptied weapons and clawed for the artisan pistol in his belt, the Spear of Shadows slid unerringly into its new wielder’s hand. The warrior’s fingers snapped shut about the black haft and he tore it free of the remaining chains with a triumphant snarl. ‘Mine,’ he howled. ‘Mine – at last.’
He turned to Volker, his eyes burning with a fierce mirth. He fingered one of the impact craters that now marked his war-plate. ‘That didn’t work out like you hoped, did it?’
Volker said nothing. He cocked the artisan pistol.
The deathbringer paused. ‘You think you can beat me, little man, with your silly little guns?’ he said, contemptuously. ‘I am Ahazian Kel. I have weathered the fire of the Tollan Cannonade, and the Thunder-wagons of Kursk. What can one gun, or two, do to me, that a thousand could not?’
‘Depends whose finger is on the trigger,’ Volker said, as calmly as he could.
Ahazian chuckled. ‘Maybe so. But I don’t have to get close to you, to kill you.’ He raised the spear and looked down at Zana. ‘What did she call you – Volker? Yes.’ He whispered to the quivering black blade. Volker felt a wrenching sensation deep within him, as if something had torn loose. The eldritch runes carved into Gung’s wide blade glowed with cold fire. Time seemed to slow. Volker levelled the pistol, his finger tightening on the trigger. Ahazian Kel swung the spear about. It left his grip with an eager hiss. The air parted before it, peeling away from that hateful blade.
Everything stopped. Volker stared at the spear, so close and yet so far away. His death, frozen in time. Gung had not fed in a thousand years, and it wished to enjoy its meal. Time and space were nothing to it, and they folded about it like ragged shrouds. It crept towards him, stealing through the moments between them like a ghyrlion slinking through the tall grasses. His limbs felt leaden, heavy with years yet unlived. It was all he could do to finish pulling the trigger. Thunder boomed. Fire burst from the barrel of his pistol, momentarily blotting out the shadows clinging to the spear.
Gung undulated closer, slithering towards him like some great black snake. Time was narrowing. Volker watched his pistol ball spin slowly past the spear, firm on its trajectory. He took a step back. Then another. It was like swimming through mud. And with every step the spear got closer. Closer. Until, at last, he could feel the heat of the blade. Time, stretched to the breaking point, snapped back. Only one chance.
Volker darted towards the oscillating rings of the orrery, towards the hazy images of other places, other realms. The spear hissed over his shoulder with a snarl of frustration. He took the steps of the dais two at a time. Gung hurtled after him with a hungry scream. He caught at the thorny haft of Ahazian’s axe, still holding the quavering rings pinned, and threw himself forwards, ripping the axe free as he fell.
He felt a lurch, as if he were being pulled in several directions at once. Colours filled his vision and he was enveloped in heat and ice all at once. Frost dappled his coat and a fiery heat burned his skin. He saw stars, red clouds and amethyst wastes, all bleeding into one another, and vanishing in the blink of an eye. Something black and hateful shot towards him through the shifting madness. It was not a spear, not really. It was something else, masquerading as a spear. A mote of cosmic filth, stretching out towards him across every realm, hungry for his death.
Desperate, he flung a hand out and caught hold of one of the now spinning rings. The metal burned through his glove and blistered his hand, but he held on regardless as he was wrenched upwards, towards the throbbing orifice in the fabric of space. His arm and shoulder protested and he felt muscle tear, deep inside. He let go at the apex of its circuit, and fell through the hole. Somewhere below him – or perhaps above him – he heard a frustrated cry, as Gung plunged deeper into the ever-shifting realms.
Volker hit the deck hard and rolled limply, his uniform steaming, his heart hammering. He’d lost his pistol in the jump, and the axe as well. He tried to push himself up. As he did so, he heard a scream. Blearily, he scanned the chamber, and saw Ahazian Kel stagger back, clutching at his eye. Volker’s last shot had struck home. The deathbringer sank to one knee, still howling. Blood poured between his fingers and puddled on the floor.
‘Still alive, Azyrite?’
Volker looked up, into Zana’s bruised features. She wiped blood from her chin and offered him her good hand. He took it, groaning as the burns on his palms flared agonisingly. ‘We need to get out of here,’ he coughed, leaning against her. The arm he’d used to hang on sagged limply by his side. Even as he spoke, the oscillating portal creaked on its dais. Energy lashed out, tearing through the walls and floor, reducing metal to slag. Volker shoved Zana aside and fell over her, as a lash of energy swept through the air where their heads had been. She screamed as he jostled the blade that still pierced her forearm. ‘That thing is going to blow,’ he said, by way of apology.
‘I guess you’d know,’ she said, trying to haul them both to their feet. Everything was coming apart around them. Conduits burst and pipes ruptured, spewing a noxious steam into the air. The orrery was spinning off-kilter now, wobbling madly on its dais, casting warp lightning in every direction. A strong wind tore at them, howling, as if the orrery were trying to draw them into the shimmering vortex growing within its spinning rings. ‘Come on, Azyrite – get up!’
Volker bit back a scream of his own as he jostled his injured arm. He wasn’t able to stop himself a moment later, however, as a red-armoured hand burst through the steam and smoke to latch onto his arm. Ahazian Kel’s grisly features appeared a moment later. ‘The spear,’ he snarled. ‘Where is it, maggot?’
He wrenched Volker from his feet and hurled him to the floor, hard. Something snapped inside Volker and he felt like a punctured water skin. As he rolled over, he saw Zana bring a knife down against Ahazian’s vambrace. The blade snapped, and the deathbringer caught her by the throat, slamming her back against the wall. ‘Where is my spear?’ the warrior roared.
‘No spears here, filth. Jus
t axes.’
Ahazian turned and staggered as one of Lugash’s throwing axes sprouted from his chest. The doomseeker barrelled through the smoke, bloody mouth twisted in a wild grin, his beard whipping wildly in the wind. ‘Did you think we were finished, daemonspawn? We’re only getting started!’ Axe in hand, Lugash drove the deathbringer back, one wild sweep after the next. Debris flew through the air about them as they struggled, drawn into the void within the orrery.
Zana crawled towards Volker. ‘What does it take to put him down?’ she hissed, as she tried to drag him upright with her good arm. Volker cursed and clutched at his side. The wind caught at them, nearly pulling him off his feet. He saw the corpse of a skaven tumble past and fly into the void, on a journey to gods alone knew where.
‘More than we’ve got. Hopefully Lugash can keep him busy.’
The doomseeker’s body bounced past them, to vanish into the smoke. Volker couldn’t tell whether he was still alive or not. He and Zana stared as Ahazian staggered towards them, fighting the pull of the vortex, bleeding, missing an eye, chopped to the bone, but still standing. The deathbringer flexed his hands.
‘I won’t kill you, mortal. Gung will come for you, sooner or later. It’s a matter of when, not if. But by the end, you’ll be praying for its arrival, this I swear.’
Volker glanced at Zana. ‘Can you find Lugash, and get to the hatch? Any hatch?’
‘I – yes, maybe. What are you planning?’
‘To give him what he wants. I need this.’ He caught hold of the shard piercing her forearm and jerked it loose. She yelped in pain as he shoved her towards the bulkhead, and turned, letting the current of the vortex catch him. Palming the chunk of steel, he tumbled towards the deathbringer. Ahazian staggered back, startled, as Volker crashed into him.
‘Are you mad?’ he growled.
‘No, just desperate,’ Volker gasped. He flicked the chunk of metal up and rammed it into the deathbringer’s ruined eye socket, twisting it as deeply as he could manage. Ahazian screamed in agony and clubbed Volker to the deck. Pain exploded through his arm and head, but as he fell, Volker swept the deathbringer’s feet out from under him. Ahazian fell, and then was hurtling backwards, unable to stop himself. He caught the edges of the orrery and for an instant Volker thought the deathbringer might manage to drag himself free of the howling void. Then the orrery rings bent and burst, and Ahazian Kel was gone.