Archaon: Everchosen

by Rob Sanders

  Archaon turned.

  ‘What know you of the treasures of Chaos?’ he said. He walked back towards the sorcerer. ‘Have you seen them? Can this Eye of yours show the way?’

  The Chaos warrior went to grab the bone staff but the sorcerer clutched it back. ‘Do you see a land undiscovered?’ Archaon demanded.

  ‘An island, yes,’ the Chaos sorcerer said. ‘A great island of daemon savagery, reaching out across the blood-dark seas for you, chosen one.’

  Archaon fell to his knees, blooding them on the cave floor. ‘I have searched. In the name of the Dark Gods I have searched. Tell me…’ he begged. He had searched so hard and for so long that it hurt to know that another possessed information perversely denied to him. ‘Tell me, Sheerian, tell me.’

  The sorcerer scowled at him. ‘Like your enemies, this land you seek is everywhere and nowhere. Like your enemies, you will find this island where you least expect to.’

  ‘Where?’ Archaon boomed.

  ‘Beneath…’

  ‘Beneath what?’ Archaon asked, his mind both murk and maelstrom. ‘The water?’

  ‘It has been beneath the water but also beneath the land,’ the Tzeentchian sorcerer told him. ‘Now it sits only beneath the heavens.’

  ‘Curse your riddles, daemon’ Archaon growled. ‘I must know. No more searching. Give me a course.’

  Sheerian considered the warlord’s request.

  ‘You will discover this realm on a Black Meridian,’ the daemon sorcerer told him. ‘That is your course. My lord will grant you no more at this time. He is of most help to those who help themselves. Besides, you do not stop to ask the way as an earthquake steals the ground from beneath your feet,’ Sheerian told him. ‘Your enemies have moved and continue to move against you.’

  ‘What know you of my enemies?’ Archaon said, getting off his knees. ‘All the world is my enemy.’

  ‘You are more right than you know, Archaon the Chosen,’ Sheerian said.

  ‘I swear, sorcerer,’ Archaon told the ancient, ‘that if you afflict me with one more riddle, you shall pay for it with your miserable existence.’

  ‘You have been betrayed, Chaos warrior.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By friends old and new,’ Sheerian told him. ‘By your dark lieutenants, Archaon. By those closest to your damned pursuits, who in turn pursue damnation for their own ends. By those who would have you fail so that their own prospects be furthered in the eyes of the Dark Gods.’

  ‘I am favoured,’ Archaon told the ancient. ‘I bear the Mark of the Ruinous Powers that burns like a star eternal in my flesh. I earned the allegiance of the dark god’s servants. Does their betrayal not anger their daemon patrons?’

  ‘Allegiance… betrayal,’ the sorcerer said. ‘These terms don’t apply to the Infernals and their wretched servants. How often have you given some miserable minion your word that you would spare him before striking him down at your second thought?’

  Archaon gave Sheerian a glower.

  ‘Have you not – Archaon, Chosen of the Chaos gods – plotted the end of such Powers and those they would sponsor? Is your quest not the destruction of us all and the end of the entire world? Mortals? Daemons? Gods?’ Sheerian cackled his excitement. Archaon burned into the sorcerer with his gaze. For a moment the Chaos warrior considered ending Sheerian right where the ancient stood.

  ‘If you know I have,’ Archaon said, ‘then why ask me, you game-playing fool?’

  ‘My Lord Tzeentch revels in such games,’ Sheerian told him. ‘He is their patron. Even of yours, ender of worlds.’

  ‘You talk of friends and enemies, sorcerer,’ Archaon said, tiring of the games Sheerian spoke of and those of his lord. ‘What are you? How do you come to be here? I have never admitted you into the ranks of my host.’

  ‘Are you sure, Chaos warrior?’ the ancient cackled. ‘You have not been yourself of late.’

  ‘I think I’d remember you, Sheerian.’

  ‘I am memorable,’ Sheerian admitted. ‘Those already shackled to your doomed quest have freed themselves. The shrine that showed you favour now favours others also. It corrupts hearts of men as it does the very stone of the citadels and towers under which it sits. Your champions have made their pilgrimage to the darkness and the Ruinous masters of that darkness have shown them their own ways – their own paths to greatness.’

  ‘I fight for these false gods, these inconstant things of shadow…’

  ‘Then you fight for false gods,’ Sheerian agreed, ‘and inconstant things of shadow. Accept that such Powers cannot be trusted – anymore than you or I.’

  ‘How many of my men have betrayed me?’

  ‘Many.’

  ‘Who amongst my champions and warlords?’ Archaon demanded, ‘must now die for their lack of vision?’

  ‘At this very moment,’ the sorcerer told him, squinting horribly through his sorcerous Eye, ‘your army is at war with itself.’ Sheerian gestured to the bloody mound of flesh that Archaon had crawled through earlier, the gore and scraps of flesh still dripping from the rocky ceiling. ‘Your arch sorcerers petitioned their lord and mine for ways to destroy you.’

  ‘The Brothers Spasskov…’

  ‘You harnessed their sorcerous rivalry, Archaon,’ Sheerian said, ‘but then claimed their victories for your own. Gorath the Ravager. The warrior titans of the Red Mountain. The island of the enchantress Thusula and her daemon daughters. Was it your blade that secured such achievements or the talents of your slave sorcerers? You think in the face of both your ignorance and success that the pair would not set aside their rivalries and remember their shared blood? The blood of brothers? Being of my lord’s following, they were amongst the most capable of your lieutenants and you equipped them with the tools they required to overthrow you – wounded pride and the selfish ambition that infects such a wound. You gave them that. The rest was potential they already had.’

  ‘Vladimir… Vladislav,’ Archaon murmured, looking at the pile of ruined flesh. Then to the ancient, Archaon said, ‘I have not been all that I could be.’

  ‘No,’ Sheerian agreed. ‘You have not. You are a warrior – as brave and untrue as any that have already held the title Everchosen of the gods. But you are not ready to command the legions of darkness.’ The sorcerer shook his brown-spotted head. ‘No. Those daemons, those fiends would tear your soul to shreds.’

  Archaon nodded slowly. The Chaos sorcerer’s cackling accusations were an annoyance but a true one. The dark templar had fallen far and was paying for his shortcomings as a leader of darkness in the world.

  ‘But I will be ready. One day. One day soon, sorcerer. These pretenders to my title will pay for their betrayal,’ Archaon growled. ‘As will the Dark Gods that sponsored them.’

  Sheerian gibbered to himself. ‘Yes, yes…’

  ‘How were the brothers to usurp me?’ Archaon asked, looking back to the mound of shredded flesh that was Vladimir and Vladislav Spasskov.

  ‘Rituals and summonings,’ the sorcerer said. ‘They called upon my Lord Tzeentch to reveal to them the secrets of releasing the serpent spirit of the Yien-Ya-Long – a mighty beast of antiquity that once laid waste to Grand Cathay – riding the winds of change and visiting the fires of transfiguration on the simple people of the provinces. They asked my lord for the incantations to give such a monster form.’

  ‘The Yien-Ya…’

  ‘Don’t hurt yourself, boy,’ the sorcerer told him. ‘The Yien-Ya-Long or “Flamefang” in your bullock-tongue.’

  ‘Flamefang,’ Archaon repeated, ‘is a dragon?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Sheerian confirmed. ‘And not some young drake or winged serpent. Flamefang is a monstrous creature. Warped and ancient. Your sorcerer-twins were to summon the beast back from the beyond.’

  ‘They failed?’ Archaon put to
the sorcerer.

  ‘They succeeded in their petition,’ Sheerian admitted. ‘My Lord Tzeentch sent me with the incantations but my summoning… was not without difficulty.’ The daemon sorcerer jabbed his staff at the remains of the Brothers Spasskov and the mountain of fused and writhing bodies that was their conjoined army of spawn. ‘Your sorcerers had prepared one of these wretches for my flesh transference. Alas, my Lord is fickle – and the summoners’ own form was chosen for my emergence.’

  ‘Then I have your Lord Tzeentch to thank,’ Archaon said, ‘or right now I would be facing the spirit of some great beast.’

  ‘My patron Power has taken a great interest in you, Archaon the Chosen,’ Sheerian said. ‘There are not many who would use the gifts of the Dark Gods to destroy them. Such bottomless aspiration is to be admired. Rewarded, even. As the pantheon turns its back to you Archaon, my Lord would take pity on your plight. He would see you survive your present doom, overthrow your enemies and find new friends amongst the ranks of his daemon followers.’ The ancient gave him a horrid smile that almost cracked his face.

  ‘Your Lord Tzeentch empowers a pair of his sorcerous acolytes to kill me,’ Archaon marvelled, ‘while sending another one to save me?’

  ‘He is the Changer of the Ways,’ Sheerian said. ‘Only he knows the truth of all things, while the rest of us drown in an ocean of confusion and contradiction.’

  ‘You spoke of reward,’ Archaon pushed.

  ‘For my Lord Tzeentch,’ the ancient went on, ‘the greatest weapon he can bequeath is knowledge. He sent me here not for your paltry sorcerers but for you. There are great beasts to be unleashed, Archaon, and you are one of them. Unleashed on your true path. But, like you, I digress and there isn’t much time. First, your enemies.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘While the Brothers Spasskov visited the Altar of Ultimate Darkness and prayed to my master for the means to destroy you,’ the sorcerer Sheerian told him, ‘others were in attendance. You know the shrine. In such darkness it can be many things to many people. That barbarian hulk you dangerously keep in the dungeons…’

  ‘The Great Spleen?’

  ‘Did you and the druchii really think that you could control such a creature,’ Sheerian continued, ‘a monstrous manifestation of the Blood God’s own wrath – and hold it captive in slumber? It visits the Altar of Ultimate Darkness in its savage dreams. Your friend Vayne…’

  Archaon’s hand went instinctively to his throat. He could still feel the slice of the corsair-captain’s dagger through his flesh. But there was no gaping wound or even the suggestion of a scar to be found.

  ‘Dravik Vayne is no friend of mine,’ Archaon snarled.

  ‘He and his druchii witch,’ the ancient said, ‘while trading in the potions, poisons and concoctions that laid you low, have been negligent in their attentions to other matters. With the fires of its rage stoked from within and without the soporifics that would keep the drugged creature so, the Blood God’s monster wakes, hungry and furious.’

  ‘What of Vayne?’ Archaon said, his words searing with hatred.

  ‘He serves the Hag Queen of Naggaroth and the Prince of Pleasure,’ Sheerian said. ‘He and his sorceress always have. A course has already been set for the Land of Chill where they will deliver to their queen the Altar of Ultimate Darkness as they were originally charged to do. They have their orders from the altar. Take back the Spite. Have the corsair crew enslave your mighty army. Kill the chosen of the Dark Gods, the bearer of the Mark eternal – Archaon of the Western Empire.’ The dark templar reached once more for his throat.

  ‘Was I lost to a dream also?’

  ‘Yes,’ the sorcerer hissed. ‘You chose well in Dravik Vayne. He is as devious and deceiving a druchii as any that have existed. You chose perhaps too well. He had his witch poison your own blade, which then you used to infect those you butchered – breathing back in the poison originally intended for you – little by little. Ingenious really. Almost worthy of my own lord. With every life you took, you were in fact taking your own. Your mind enslaved. Your throat vulnerable to the druchii’s own blade. The Spite is back under Vayne’s captaincy. The quiet and steady enslavement of your crew has been going on for months, with many of your loyalists imprisoned in the sanctum dungeons. And…’

  ‘I was slain by Dravik Vayne,’ Archaon said.

  ‘You were,’ Sheerian confirmed. The sorcerer bit at his gnarled lip. ‘A soul as old as yours has known death many times.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your celestial philosophies, sorcerer.’

  ‘But not like this,’ Sheerian said. ‘Emboldened by the infernal influence of the Altar of Ultimate Darkness – with the lies and whispers of their patron Powers in their ears – your enemies moved against you. All at once. Unknown to you and unknown to each other. You were slain. This is true. By the Prince of Pleasure’s druchii servants. But you were not you at the time of your slaying.’

  ‘More riddles?’ Archaon snarled.

  ‘You have been replaced, warlord,’ Sheerian told him. ‘Many times. The Lord of Flies – sworn god-foe of my own daemon lord – blessed the womb of his witch with a plague of men.’

  ‘Mother Fecundus?’

  ‘While you put the witch’s army of maggot-men to your own uses, she had uses for you. Sapping your soul like a disease or some thing that lays its eggs beneath the skin, she birthed mindless monstrosities in your semblance. Into one she implanted what she had drained of your being. It is this thing that has commanded your army for past months, was subject to the druchii’s treacheries and had its throat slit by Dravik Vayne.’

  ‘Then how did I come to be down here, in the lair of the Brothers Spasskov and their monstrosities?’

  ‘The body is but a sack of flesh without the soul. What remained of you was secreted down here, under the Citadel, where the Brothers Spasskov kept their spawn. While the witch’s maggot took your place in degenerate impersonation – your body was here – amongst this abomination of bodies. The witch is devious but I suspect that my Lord Tzeentch had a hand in it. There is something of his tangled elegance in the idea that his sorcerers toiled here – right here – in the arts of your destruction, mere footsteps from where your body lay defenceless.’ Sheerian gestured to the Fleshstorm with his bone staff. ‘Here, in this spawn, like the rockpool fish that sits in the anemone unstung.’

  Archaon’s fists were clenched at his side. His face was a mask of stone cold fury. His army was riddled with dissemblers, assassins and usurpers. The scale and beauty of the betrayal was breathtaking. His warmongering lieutenants had used him and cast him aside. His gods had abandoned him. Failure ran like lead through his veins. His heart thumped for vengeance, hammering inside his chest as though it were fit to burst.

  ‘I am whole again?’ the Chaos warrior asked, his words like the clearing of steel from the scabbard.

  ‘As much as you ever were,’ the sorcerer said. A smile began to spread across the ancient’s shrivelled face.

  ‘I will be the end of the gods,’ Archaon told Sheerian. ‘I will be the death of all the world. I will slay everything that walks or crawls – but it starts here with those that have failed me and tricked me into failing myself. They shall all die for this.’

  ‘Yes, yes…’ Sheerian hissed.

  Archaon turned away, the blue light of the Eye washing across his scarred back as he strode into the shadows. The dark templar’s bones ached for blood. He stretched his neck from side to side and crunched the knuckles of both fists. There was killing to be done. It was time to go to war with his own army. He had made them. The scourge of the Shadowlands. Warlords of the Northern Wastes. They had ridden disaster through the chill lands of Naggaroth. They had brought destruction to the shores of the Great Eastern Ocean, encapsulating the lands, waters and tempests in a ring of Ruinous fire. Indeed, Archaon had made them. Now he
would break them.

  ‘You are Archaon,’ Sheerian announced to the gloom. ‘Warlord of darkness, risen out of the west like the Ruinous Star. You have gathered about you the warriors and champions of doom. Men and beasts who themselves receive the blessings of their patrons for dark service in your name. How will you, one man – one great man – but one man alone, destroy an army of destroyers? Men and beasts who have already laid you low with steel and cunning? Do not dive head first into the waters of your doom. Think. Consider. Be at dark peace. How might such decimation be achieved?’

  Archaon closed his eye. He breathed. His heart slowed to the stabbing rhythm of hate. He became one with the darkness. Then it came to him. The warlord smiled.

  ‘Your master offers reward?’ Archaon asked. He did not bother to turn to address the daemon sorcerer.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sheerian said. Then thoughtfully, ‘Archaon – give him something worthy of a reward. Some offering or suggestion that his interest in your fate is justified.’

  ‘You were sent with secrets, sorcerer,’ Archaon said, his voice bouncing ominously about the cave. ‘Incantations. This Flamefang…’

  ‘The savage spirit of a serpent ancient and long passed,’ the sorcerer told him. ‘A monster of fang and flame that no wall or great bastion would resist. The terror of Grand Cathay has afflicted the eastern empires for the best part of a thousand years. Know what you ask, Chaos warrior. You would have me visit Lord Tzeentch’s storm of change upon the world once more?’

  ‘I would,’ Archaon told him with serene certainty before striding into the shadows.

  ‘Yes,’ Khezula Sheerian – Daemon sorcerer of Tzeentch – hissed, both to the departing Archaon and himself. ‘Yesssss…’

  CHAPTER XV