While Orthan visited death upon the mammoth, Arnhault drew a silver vial from a pouch on his belt. An arcane song of eternity whispered across his lips as he held the vessel towards the beast. The instant the creature’s life was driven from it, the magic he evoked reached out to the fleeing spirit. He could feel the Chaos contamination drifting apart from the core of the beast’s essence, and it was this essence that his spell ensnared. With fingers of aetheric force, Arnhault’s magic drew the mammoth’s spirit down into the vial, pouring it into the tiny vessel until it was filled with the boiling energies of the vanquished giant. Only when he was certain he had drawn all that remained uncorrupted did Arnhault bring his song to an end. For a moment he could actually see the dark belligerence of Chaos lingering above the mammoth’s carcass. Then it began to fade, seeping back into the cursed regions from whence it had come.
Arnhault stared at the vial for a moment and then quickly pressed a sigmarite stopper into the neck of the vessel. A powerful rune fashioned by duardin demi-gods adorned the underside of the stopper, forming a barrier no spirit could penetrate.
Castigator-Prime Nerio approached Arnhault as he returned the vial to the pouch on his belt. ‘Forgive my impertinence, Knight-Incantor, but is it wise to try to trap such a spirit?’
Arnhault tapped his fingers against the pouch. ‘For all the enormity of its flesh, the beast’s spirit is a simple thing. Were it otherwise the taint of Chaos would have befouled it as completely as it defiled its body.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it is no reckless testing of my arts which you have beheld, merely a practical application of knowledge you too may prove worthy to learn.’
‘Nerio would first need to learn how to confine himself to the structure of his lessons.’ Penthius walked around the dead bulk of the mammoth to join his brothers. ‘I do not think it would be prudent to train an acolyte who insists on learning how to conjure magic before he knows how to safely dispel it.’
The Castigator-Prime rounded on Penthius. ‘A versatile mind understands the difference between recklessness and initiative.’
‘Yes,’ Penthius agreed. ‘A versatile mind does.’
Nerio patted the thunderhead greatbow slung over his shoulder. ‘If I were not versatile that beast would have twisted your armour into such a state that you would now pass for a marsh crab.’
‘If you had kept your archers in formation, we could have settled with the brute before it got to grips with anyone,’ Penthius growled back at him. ‘It is not for nothing that established procedures are observed. At least by a disciplined warrior.’
Arnhault interjected himself into what he knew would swell into bitter argument if allowed to escalate. Many times he had undertaken missions with Penthius and Nerio in his retinue, but never had he seen them agree upon anything when it came to tactics. Penthius was too hidebound and rigid, doggedly adhering to martial tradition. Nerio, by contrast, was impulsive and headstrong.
‘We will save the tactical discussion for a later time,’ Arnhault decreed. It was all he needed to say. If there was one thing Penthius and Nerio could agree upon, it was the depth of their loyalty to the Knight-Incantor. When Arnhault gave an order, it was obeyed instantly. The disagreement was forgotten until fresh provocation caused it to return.
Penthius turned towards the Knight-Incantor and bowed his head in deference to Arnhault’s rank. ‘Your knowledge of Ghur is formidable. Have you any awareness of this place? Do you know how near we may be to where our duty would take us?’
Arnhault’s eyes closed as he considered the questions posed to him. ‘We stand now in what was once the Wood of Gyr.’ He looked to the trees from whence the mammoth had emerged. ‘There is a crispness to the air in that direction, a trace of ice on the breeze. If we were to travel that way, we should find Frostmoor and its screaming glaciers. Long ago, it would have been a journey of many days’ march.’ Arnhault gestured to the pines that dominated the forest around them. ‘But I speak of when the Wood of Gyr was home to willow and palm. The land has changed. As the screaming glaciers crawl further from Frostmoor, they drive the beasts and plants of the taiga before them.’ He pointed his sigmarite staff at the mammoth’s carcass. ‘There was a time when these beasts were unknown in Gyr and rare in the Kingdom of Kharza.’
‘Kharza is near then?’ Nerio asked.
‘It is near enough,’ Arnhault supplied. ‘The royal house of Kharza would ride to the Wood of Gyr to honour the Rites of Taal and hunt the golden boar with jade-tipped spears and sacred leopards trained to hunt no other prey. Their entourages would spend a fortnight travelling to the hunt and back.’ He swung around and nodded towards the trees to his right. ‘The journey will take us less time,’ he stated. ‘We are not encumbered by the regalia of royalty and the baggage of the hunt.’
‘For all that, we too are hunters,’ Nerio said. He reached to the quiver of crystal-headed maces that hung at his side.
‘We are not hunters,’ Penthius corrected him. ‘We are protectors. Our duty is not to simply track some wild brute to its lair. An appeal has been made and that prayer has been heard. We are come to save the faithful of Wyrmditt from the evil that besets them.’ He looked back to the mutated mammoth. ‘Evil far different to the beasts of Chaos, but no less deadly.’
Nerio shook his head. ‘It will not be enough to defend these people. We will have to root out this menace and destroy it utterly if we would bring them a lasting peace. Make no mistake, brother, we are hunters.’
‘We are neither protectors nor hunters,’ Arnhault said. He donned his helm, locking his face once more behind the stern metal mask. ‘We are avengers,’ he told his warriors. ‘We come not simply to bring relief to the people of Wyrmditt. We will confront the darkness that threatens them and we will make it answer for its manifold outrages.’
Arnhault gestured to his brothers. ‘Get our warriors into formation. Nerio, you will abide by whatever deployment Penthius deems advisable. Penthius, you will allow the Castigators flexibility of action should we encounter any unexpected obstacles.’ He indicated the mammoth. ‘Even before the scourge of Chaos threatened to overwhelm it utterly, Ghur was a place of fearsome beasts. With monsters twisted by the Dark Gods roaming the land, we must be doubly vigilant.
‘Wyrmditt lies beyond the Wood of Gyr, across the veldt of the Fangfields and the hill country of Takrahn.’ Arnhault nodded to himself as he envisioned the maps he had consulted when this duty had been entrusted to him, matching the place names to his more exacting knowledge. ‘The town is deep within one of the border marches of Kharza, at the very edge of the old fiefdoms.’
‘That is why the people are imperilled,’ Penthius stated. ‘They are too near the fallen kingdom. Too close to the shadows of the past.’
Arnhault gave the Sequitor-Prime a reproachful look. ‘The shadows of the past hang over us all, brother.’ He swept his gaze across the clearing, studying the forest around them. ‘Perhaps the past is never a heavier burden than when we do not recognise its weight upon us.’
Mouldering darkness filled the silent hall. The pomp and pageantry of the court was absent now, and in their place there was only an oppressive gloom.
Sabrodt leaned back into the diamond-headed throne. Golden wings cast to echo the leathery pinions of dragons formed a magnificent canopy overhead. The heavy arms of the throne were like scaly coils; the broad feet were clawed talons. If he raised his eyes he could see the fanged visage of the dragon, the huge diamond lodged in its throat. In the right light, an eerie flicker shimmered within the diamond, as though the beast’s flame were about to spill forth and immolate those who bowed before the throne.
Since his early childhood, Sabrodt had been enthralled by the Dragonseat. He was captivated by its wondrous beauty, the richness of its settings and the craftsmanship that infused every curve and line, each scale and claw, with masterful artistry. Nowhere, he was convinced, was there anything so grand as this
throne. Not in the palaces of the gods themselves could such magnificence possibly be found.
The royal court’s splendour was as nothing when compared to the Dragonseat. Artisans from lands beyond a hundred horizons had laboured to create a hall that could complement the throne at its centre. No feat of man or duardin had been equal to the task. Sabrodt had watched them fail, one after another, led away in disgrace to the priest-king’s dungeons. As a boy, he had gone down to those benighted vaults to listen to the artists bewailing their fate, begging their guards for even one more glimpse of the masterpiece they had failed to match.
How he had longed to sit upon the Dragonseat and to possess it. Being so near to it year upon year had been a kind of torture to Sabrodt. Always so close, always within reach. Yet he could not dare to reach, for only the priest-king was allowed to touch the throne.
A grisly laugh rose from Sabrodt. Now. Now he was priest-king.
His gaze pierced the darkness of the hall, for there was no shadow that could hide its secrets from him any more. He could see the cracked pillars of malachite and obsidian that ringed the chamber, the archways of black marble that stretched between them and helped support the ceiling. Mouldy tatters of tapestry yet clung to the archways, hanging like dusty cobwebs. The lavish rugs that stretched across the floor were faded and frayed, clotted with dirt and grime. The tile frescoes adorning the walls were cracked and crumbling, exposing the grey earth behind them.
The grisly laugh took on a bitter note as Sabrodt stared at the jumbled bones piled about the chamber. It was many years since the court of Kharza had been as he remembered it. The morbid stamp of death was upon it now.
Sabrodt leaned back in the Dragonseat, the throne he had coveted for so very long, and his insubstantial spirit shifted through the ancient chair. He was priest-king, lord of Kharza and the only one with the authority to sit upon the throne, yet it was the one thing he could not do. Only by the greatest exertion of willpower could he impel some semblance of solidity to his being. But to touch the Dragonseat was a thing too keenly desired, too dearly cherished. The moment he tried, his focus would be lost and his phantom hand would pass right through the throne.
A spiteful snarl hissed its way through Sabrodt’s fleshless face. He rose from the throne and drew his ragged burial shroud closer around his spectral form. The Dragonseat was a foolishness of his youth, the idle dream of a child. It was not the throne he had coveted. It was the power it represented. The power he now commanded. He, he was priest-king!
Ghostly lights blazed within the hollows of the wraith’s skull. Kharza belonged to Sabrodt. It was his dominion and would be forever. That was the promise Black Nagash made to him when he had sworn his soul to the Great Necromancer.
That was the curse that would not allow Sabrodt to rest quiet in his grave.
Sabrodt, priest-king of Kharza.
Sabrodt, the Shrouded King.
Chapter two
The steam of countless geysers billowed up into the morning sky and created a hot rain that pelted the sigmarite mail of the Sacrosanct retinue as they marched across what had once been the frontier of a powerful kingdom. Sometimes the gnarled remains of a watchtower would protrude from the damp earth, its ancient masonry hidden beneath thick growths of crimson moss. The fallen debris of shattered keeps created jagged knolls and stumpy hills on which stubborn thorn bushes sank their roots. Once the empty hulk of an abandoned temple loomed into view, flocks of jackal-bats roosting beneath the empty arches and shattered windows.
‘The Kingdom of Kharza must have been rich indeed to lavish such constructions upon its borderlands,’ Penthius observed as they moved past the decayed temple.
Arnhault stared at the rubble between the temple’s empty walls. ‘The margraves drew a generous largesse from their king so that they might better defend his domain from invaders.’ He turned and gazed across the rolling landscape, its vast expanse of sharp-leaved tall-grass broken by clusters of bushes and the occasional stand of trees. ‘Many were the grot and orruk hordes that were crushed in the veldt without ever despoiling the heartlands of Kharza. For ten generations, no foreign hand laid siege upon the Koeningshoff or threatened the Dragonseat.’
The Knight-Incantor shook his head. ‘But there is no greater enemy of legacy and tradition than Chaos. The legions of the Dark Gods came into Ghur, as they did all the Mortal Realms except sacred Azyr. The chronicles say that the armies of Kharza fought nobly, but against the tide of darkness they could not prevail.’
‘Only the might of Sigmar is powerful enough to prevail against Chaos,’ Nerio stated and clasped his fingers tight around the holy talisman hanging from his neck.
Arnhault gave Nerio a solemn look. ‘Such is true, but the host of Kharza was denied even the choice to perish in battle. Swords raised high. Defiance in their hearts.’ His hand closed tighter about the sigmarite staff he carried. ‘The chronicles relate that before the battle could be fought, the warriors of Kharza were brought low. Betrayed from within.
‘A traitor delivered these lands to the Dark Gods and left them to languish under their vile oppression until Sigmar’s might at last forced Chaos into retreat.’ Arnhault reached down and knocked over a stone lying atop the loamy earth. An assortment of insects scurried away as he upended their refuge. Deftly he snatched up one of the creatures before it could escape. ‘The blight of Chaos lingers on,’ he said, holding out to his companions the creature he held. It was a long, worm-like thing with huge mandibles and spiny projections along its sides. Dark burgundy in hue, there were bold white markings across its back, markings that were too vivid and regular to be entirely natural. The white splotches each depicted the skull rune of Khorne.
‘Blood-maggot.’ Penthius made no effort to disguise his loathing. ‘I know this vermin. They feed on the carrion left by Khorne’s hordes.’
‘How can they exist when the Blood God’s murderers have been driven from these lands?’ Nerio wondered.
Arnhault dropped the grotesque creature and smashed it with the butt of his staff. ‘Like the Blood God, this filth cares not what feeds their malicious hunger. It is enough that their fodder has perished by violence, and in the Realm of Beasts there is a surfeit of violence to sustain them.’ He wiped his staff clean on the swaying grass. ‘A reminder that even when the hosts of Chaos have been forced into retreat, the corruption they carry with them will remain.’
Arnhault looked back to the desolate temple. ‘But it is not Chaos which now seeks to control these lands. A different breed of evil is at work here.’ The Knight-Incantor walked towards the crumbling edifice. At his approach, clusters of jackal-bats left their perches and went soaring over the veldt, their eerie laugh-like chirps echoing across the plain.
Penthius called the rest of the Stormcasts to a halt. The armoured warriors broke ranks, using the respite to inspect their weapons. Three of Nerio’s Castigators spread out to form a circuit around their brothers, their bulky thunderhead greatbows held at the ready, their eyes roving across the veldt, watching for any threatening sign.
Penthius, however, had his attention fixed in one direction. He watched the old temple and the lone Stormcast who moved steadily towards its crumbling mass.
‘A strange humour has come upon Arnhault,’ Nerio said, following the direction of Penthius’ gaze.
Penthius nodded and watched Arnhault pass through the empty doorway of the temple. ‘Maintain command here,’ he told Nerio. ‘Stay vigilant. I will see if the Knight-Incantor requires help. He is a greater aether-mage than any of us, more attuned to the harmonies of magic. It may be he has sensed something here that none of us can feel.’
‘We should make haste to Wyrmditt,’ Nerio said, his voice lowered. ‘It is there our duty calls us.’
‘It is not for us to remind Arnhault of our duty,’ Penthius chastised his brother, matching the low tone of Nerio. He did not want the other Stormcasts to overhear
the exchange. ‘He has served the Sacrosanct Chamber through many reforgings and won for Sigmar many victories. Neither of us are fit to question his decisions.’
‘I stand humbled,’ Nerio said. ‘I can only blame eagerness for putting such thoughts on my tongue. I meant no disrespect to Arnhault.’
‘I did not think you did,’ Penthius assured him. ‘I know your devotion to the Knight-Incantor is as solid as my own.’ He clapped his armoured hand against Nerio’s pauldron. ‘Keep our brothers ready to move on. I will see if I can render Arnhault assistance.’
Penthius moved through the long grass towards the old ruin. Jackal-bats continued to fly up from the temple’s darkened interior, their agitated cries sharp in the misty air. The Sequitor-Prime kept a tight grip about the haft of his maul. He was tense with foreboding and uneasy with this departure from the martial strictures of the chamber. He trusted that Arnhault had good reason for this diversion, even if he could not conceive the Knight-Incantor’s intention.
The broad archway that stretched above the temple entrance loomed over Penthius as he made his way into the ruin. As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, a feeling of malevolence impressed itself upon him. So strong was the impression that it gave him pause, kept him standing in the shadow of the empty gate. He had imagined the temple had once been devoted to the God-King, or at least Taal or another of the nature divinities honoured by the people of Ghur. Yet there was no hint of holiness about the place, no suggestion of Azyr’s light about it. Even if the temple had been destroyed and despoiled by the slaves of Chaos, there should have been some trace of its original sanctification that a Sacrosanct Stormcast could sense.
Sacrosanct & Other Stories Page 2