by C. L. Werner
The bat-beast lived.
It lurched towards Gotramm, reaching out for him with one of its clawed wings. Backing away from it, the shocked arkanaut saw the cause of the creature’s resuscitation. Its fur was blotched with the gore that had splattered across it from the torn bodies of the ghouls he had pushed towards it. Now, before his eyes, he saw those dark stains shrinking, sucked down into the monster’s grotesque body. A vampiric fiend, the creature had been revived by the blood of its own minions. Now it sought a much fresher supply to hasten its recovery, to knit the bones of the shattered leg it dragged across the floor and the mangled wing that flopped against its side.
Gotramm looked at the pistol in his hand and thought of how much damage Brokrin had visited against this beast to put it down the first time. The gun felt suddenly puny, inconsequential beside the menace he faced. Briefly he thought of shouting an alarm to his comrades, but doing so might shift the vampire’s attention to them, send it raging onto the deck before they could mount a defence. He looked past the monster, to where the rope dangled down into the hold. If he could just get past the creature and reach that rope…
Gotramm remembered what Brokrin had said about the beast’s aversion to light and sought to capitalise on that weakness. Tucking the coffer under his arm, he whipped the tinderlamp off his belt and flung it at the bat-beast. His intention had been to simply blind it, but as the lamp came hurtling towards it the monster swatted it aside with a flick of its claw. The lamp cracked against the wall, sending a cascade of sparks across the pools of spilled beer and grog. Blue flame crackled across the hold as the alcohol took light.
The bat-beast drew back in agony, shrieking at the leaping flames. Gotramm seized upon the distraction, lunging past it and rushing for the rope. He gained it and began pulling himself up when the monster came charging after him. He could feel its sickly breath against his face as he swung around and pressed the barrel of his pistol against its chest.
Even the bark of the pistol was drowned out by the tortured howl that rose from the vampiric brute. The bullet had punched through its decayed flesh with minimal effect. It was the flash from the muzzle that wrought ruin upon it. Before being revived by the blood of ghouls, the beast’s carcass had been lying in the mire of alcohol. Now, its beer-soaked fur was ignited by the flame from Gotramm’s pistol. In a matter of heartbeats, the monster was transformed into a screaming firebrand, lashing about in blind agony until it tripped into the blazing puddles at its feet.
Gotramm didn’t wait to see more. Hand over hand he scrambled up the rope. At the mouth of the hole he was met by Brokrin and Thurik, confusion writ large across their faces. The sounds of battle and the roar of flames had brought them rushing back. Proudly, Gotramm handed up the coffer to Brokrin and then let Thurik help him onto the deck.
‘There was a coffer,’ Gotramm smiled. ‘Skaggi owes that old bird an apology.’
Brokrin glanced at the coffer but his attention quickly went back to the conflagration down in the hold. ‘What happened down there?’ he demanded.
Gotramm had been awed by Brokrin’s description of his battle with the bat-beast. Now the arkanaut felt it was his turn to be the subject of praise. ‘Your sparring partner from earlier came back for a second round,’ he told Brokrin. A grim smile stretched across his face. ‘It didn’t do any better with me than it did with you.’
Brokrin shook his head. ‘Tell me about it when we’re away. A wrecked ironclad with a fire in her belly isn’t the place for tall tales. A poor tomb for duardin, but the only one their bones can claim now. I only hope whatever gods the Chuitsek honour, they find Djangas in the rising smoke.’
The reminder of the lost dead took the wind from Gotramm’s sails. His smile collapsed into a pained grimace. He could take most any kind of wound in battle, but an injury to his pride was unbearable. Silently, he followed Brokrin and Thurik to the ladder the Iron Dragon had lowered for them. Though far less frantic, the climb back to their ship was harder for him than his escape from the burning hold.
As they set foot again on the Iron Dragon’s deck, excitement stirred among the crew. Drumark waved down at the wreck below. Gotramm turned in time to see a hulking shape pull itself up from the hold. It was impossible to make out any features, for the creature was fully enveloped in flame, but Gotramm knew it had to be the monster he’d shot. Like a living torch, the thing stumbled about for a few moments, wailing in torment. Then it stood straight and an ear-piercing shriek stabbed through the air, forcing many of the duardin to cover their ears. The next instant, the beast collapsed, whatever fearful vitality lingered in it at last extinguished.
That final shriek seemed to echo back to the Iron Dragon from afar, and then Gotramm perceived that it wasn’t quite the same, like a tune played upon a different instrument. That instrument, he realised, was a horn. Someone was answering the monster’s dying shriek.
‘To the south!’ Mortrimm called out. ‘By Grungni, there must be hundreds of ’em!’ The navigator stood near the prow, his spyglass turned in the direction from which the horn had sounded. Soon every scope and glass on the ship was turned in that direction, the crew muttering their own epithets as they saw the sight Mortrimm had discovered.
Gotramm borrowed a glass from Horgarr and saw a multitude of the scrawny, hunchbacked scavengers they had fought on the wreck loping out of caves and grottos, scurrying through the rocks. Other ghoulish brutes followed them, monsters cast from a similar mould as the cannibals but far larger and more muscled. A few of the bat-like beasts could be seen leaping from rock to rock or using their leathery wings for brief glides between outcroppings. When the horn sounded again, Gotramm noticed a pallid scavenger arrayed in the tatters of a huntsman’s vestments. Near him, an obscenely twisted and vicious-looking fiend overlooked the roused cannibal horde, its immense claws preening the decayed finery that hung about its grisly frame.
Skaggi set down the glass he was peering through. The logisticator shuddered. ‘Like the lord of the land conducting a hunting party.’ He shivered again, staring at the collar in his belt. The next second saw him toss the thing to the deck. He had a good idea what this particular lord used for hounds.
‘There’s no profit to be had fighting these beasts,’ Brokrin called out to his crew. ‘Only the added expense of expended ordnance and lost time. If need be, after the survivor is able to talk to us, we can come back and bomb them in their holes to settle such grudge-debt as they owe.’
The captain’s decision brought visible relief to Skaggi, his sharp face looking almost happy for once. Gotramm was of a similar mind. He was not one to shy away from a fight, but neither did he really want to repeat the fracas from the wreck on a grander scale.
Gotramm’s last view of the flesh-eaters was a mass of indistinct shapes crawling all over the wreck and howling up at the Iron Dragon as it ascended to join the frigates above the Serpent’s Craw.
Chapter V
Above the ancient hills of Shadowfar, a great pinnacle of stone thrust itself skywards. No natural formation of upheaval or erosion, the spire had been conjured by sorceries primordial and eldritch. Shaped from the blackest of magic, the jagged peak reared thousands of feet into the air, its craggy slopes twisted into a coruscating spiral. A remnant of the long age of darkness when the claws of Chaos held dominion over the realm of Chamon, the mountain had been conjured up from the earth as a citadel of evil. The Sapphire Palace it was called by those steeped in the arcane arts, the profane witchcraft that alone could grant mortal eyes the power to perceive its vastness or tarry within its loathsome halls.
Near the very summit of the bastion, burrowed deep within its black interior, was the cavernous sanctum that had played host to the most infamous warlocks over the centuries. In such fashion did the diabolic lair continue to serve.
Suspended in the nine corners of the vast cavern, great braziers cast an eerie glow across the sanctum, reflecting from the
arcane sigils etched into the floor. At the very centre of nine concentric rings, surrounded by nine black candles shaped from corpse-wax, stood a misshapen figure swathed in a dark robe.
Drawing back the sleeve of his robe, Khoram pressed the edge of the knife against his mutant arm. While his homunculus jabbered fearfully into his ear, the sorcerer began to saw into his skin. Layer by layer the oily flesh parted, oozing a translucent substance that was more daemonic ichor than mortal blood. He ground his teeth, his eyes shutting tight against the pain that shivered through his nerves.
‘Pain?’ Khoram almost snarled the word to his homunculus. ‘What is the pain of flesh beside the virulent compulsion that howls through my mind? My every thought twists towards a single obsession.’
The tretchlet chirruped in warning, its beak nuzzling against the sorcerer’s neck. ‘Nay,’ Khoram told it, ‘there is no cause to fear. The very idea of defying my purpose is impossible. There are things it is too dangerous to understand. It is enough to simply obey.’
The wound in his arm throbbed. Electric tremors sizzled through his body. Khoram opened his eyes and stared at the wound as he felt another sensation running beneath the sizzle. He focused his awareness, his very being, upon that violent undulation, encouraging it with his own will. Slowly something pushed its way up through the cords of sinew and nerve, the streams of blood vessels and the solidity of flesh and fat. Inch by inch it thrust itself free from the meat of the sorcerer’s arm until at last Khoram gazed directly upon it.
The gore of its violent passage dripped away, repelled by the object that had emerged onto the surface of Khoram’s arm. The light cast by the braziers reflected off the thing’s shiny coating, throwing across the stone ceiling a rainbow band of colour and shadow. An eerie tinkling sound accompanied each band of light as it was cast off by the mirror-sheen.
Khoram had heard the sound before, but never could he fully prepare himself for it. The noise was akin to that of breaking glass, for what was embedded in his arm was similar to glass, a sliver of mirror endowed with enchantments that made the Orb of Zobras seem a child’s toy. So great a treasure was it that it wasn’t enough for the sorcerer to keep it on his person, but rather in his person. It was a fragment of reality itself, a window between realms that allowed him direct communion with his daemonic patron. As long as he possessed the shard, there was no rival who could match his mastery of the black arts.
Gleaming at Khoram, the mirror seemed to glow with a dull pulsation. Not exactly a manifestation of light, but rather of power, the fell energies set loose by the connection between Chamon and the Realm of Chaos itself. Khoram dared not turn his gaze from the mirror, but he knew from prior experience the kinds of changes those energies were working upon the room around him. Solid stone becoming porous vapour, dull granite exploding into a vibrant panoply of coloured fur, crawling insects magnified into lumbering abominations only to be reduced once more into a coating of slime on the floor. There were wards and sigils to contain these energies, confining them to the chamber in which Khoram brought them. It wouldn’t do to have them run rampant throughout the Sapphire Palace and reduce the stronghold of Tamuzz to a pillar of soot or a deranged jungle of lotus-blossoms.
As the glow streamed upwards into his face, Khoram felt the presence of his patron. The great daemon communicated not in words, not even in thoughts. The connection between mortal acolyte and daemonic master was more primal than that, more visceral and profound than a simple exchange of ideas. The daemon’s intentions emblazoned themselves upon Khoram’s memories, reshaping his awareness in the process. The sorcerer didn’t learn what was needed of him, but rather felt he’d always known that purpose. Sometimes he found that he’d already acted to carry out these new-old commands. It made him wonder if his patron, through the medium of the sorcerer’s memories, wasn’t reaching back through the veil of time to set its plans into motion even before they were revealed to its servant.
Khoram felt angry as the daemon-glow shone upon him. Tamuzz, the presence within the Royal Glass impressed the name upon him. The warlord is stubborn. Favoured of the Changer yet stubborn in his methods. He refuses a more subtle means from fear of his prestige.
‘He is bitter, master,’ Khoram spoke, gazing into the Royal Glass. ‘Many of his followers were lost attacking the Kharadron ships.’
Pawns must be sacrificed to accomplish any great goal. Tamuzz seeks compensation. He is tempted by the notion of capturing the second fleet of sky-vessels.
Khoram felt something like panic gnaw at him. Tamuzz’s actions would threaten the plans he had made so carefully by consulting the Orb of Zobras. The Royal Glass impressed on him what would be his fate if those plans were undone.
‘I cannot strike against Tamuzz,’ Khoram pleaded. ‘He is favoured of Mighty Tzeentch and bears the most sacred of the Changer’s marks.’
A choice of doom. Fear which may become truth or destruction which is assured. The Changer’s ways are many and not all taboos are inviolate.
Khoram shuddered as the concepts stabbed into his brain. There was promise and threat in the concepts expressed. The path between destruction and truth might be thin as a needle and sharp as a razor. ‘I will not allow Tamuzz to interfere,’ Khoram vowed.
Why have you failed to stop him? Already Tamuzz meddles. Look!
Without conscious volition, Khoram turned his eyes to the orb spinning around his head. In the facets of the orb he could see the Kharadron ironclad on which the sole survivor from the Stormbreaker had been given passage. In the image, he could also see the warriors of Tamuzz drawing closer, flitting through the skies on the backs of daemons. Soon the warlord would lead his followers in attack.
Why have you failed to stop Tamuzz?
Khoram looked back to the Royal Glass. ‘Under care of the duardin, the survivor will recover,’ he said. ‘But will they trust his story when he tells it? There is strategy in allowing Tamuzz to harry the sky-vessels. When he speaks of battle, there will be proof of his words. If the duardin believe him about the attack then they will accept his talk about treasure…’
A sullen glow emanated from the Royal Glass, impressing Khoram with its ire. The plan is not enough for Tamuzz. He will not relent. He will rush in to seize what looks to be easy prey. He will ignore your strategy of engagement and withdrawal. He thinks in terms of compulsion rather than manipulation. He would seize the Kharadron ships and force those taken captive to do what was needed of them.
Khoram shared in his patron’s anger. The direct approach Tamuzz favoured was too reckless. The subtle ploy developed by the Master was the better course to take.
‘I cannot strike against Tamuzz,’ the sorcerer said. ‘The Mark he bears is necessary to my magic. His mere presence focuses the Eye of Tzeentch upon the Sapphire Palace, allows me to harness the Changer’s arcane winds.’ Khoram’s face pulled back in a ghastly smile. ‘I will prevent him from spoiling our designs without forsaking the power he provides. He is still needful to our purposes.’
Bring him to heel. You know what is at stake if you fail me.
The glow faded away. Khoram cried out as the Royal Glass squirmed its way back beneath his skin. The torn flesh folded in upon itself, sealing up until not even a scar remained. The process was, if anything, even more tortuous than when the mirror had emerged. The sorcerer was left panting on the floor, sweat dripping down his chest, feathers moulting from his tretchlet.
He knew what was expected of him. How to accomplish it was the question. With an effort, Khoram stood up, and managed to summon the orb to him, the coils of his mutant hand wrapping about it as it left its circuitous orbit. He snarled at his daemonic parasite, rousing the tretchlet from its exhausted stupor.
‘I must prevent Tamuzz from going too far,’ Khoram told the homunculus. ‘He jeopardises the strategy I have set into motion.’ He stared into the orb. ‘Guide me to the vision of prophecy that will show the best
way to rebuke Tamuzz. Then I will know how to act.’
As Khoram watched the images flicker across the orb’s facets, he rejected the feeling of urgency that nagged at him. Sorcery wasn’t a thing to be conjured in haste. The duardin would simply have to defend themselves until Khoram was ready to act.
Gotramm stared down sat the recovering duardin who now rested in Horgarr’s cabin. The endrinmaster had surrendered his quarters to the unconscious survivor, reasoning that it was the best place for him. The walls of Horgarr’s room were double-thick to muffle the sounds of the ship and allow him better concentration when meditating on the Iron Dragon’s mechanics and how best to effect repairs or augment their performance. The quiet would also help the wounded duardin recover faster.
Though at the moment, it didn’t seem the survivor was in any better shape than he had been down in the wreck. After making that frantic entreaty to Gotramm about getting the coffer, the duardin had lapsed back into silence. By the time he was brought aboard, he was completely insensible, not even reacting when Drumark clumsily banged the survivor’s knee against the gunwale while extracting him from the harness.
Lodri attended the survivor’s wounds, scrubbing them with a grog-soaked cloth and digging splinters out of the duardin’s flesh with a narrow-necked pair of grippers. The grippers were normally used for fishing debris out of the directional vents on an aether-endrin; doubling as a chirurgeon’s tool was slightly outside its design. Then again, Lodri was a powder monkey who only doubled as a healer. The real bone-setter had jumped ship two voyages back, complaining about the curse and resultant lack of profit. For all that he stank of cordite and was about as friendly as a hungry vulture, Lodri did know enough about the healer’s art to keep the odd cut and break from developing into something more malignant and debilitating.
‘Beer for him, grog for me,’ Lodri said as he set down the grippers and reached for a pair of bottles. Unhooking the clay stoppers and letting them dangle on their wire hooks, he pressed one of them to the survivor’s mouth while quickly chugging the contents of the other. A shiver ran through Lodri as the liquor rushed down his body. His patient’s reaction was less dramatic, merely a ruddiness that shone on his cheeks and forehead after a minute or so.