The Black Rift of Klaxus: In the Walls of Uryx

by Josh Reynolds

  Moros roared out an order, and the Judicators loosed a salvo of skybolts. A second salvo followed, and then a third. But the warherds pressed forward. Rickety chariots rattled up, surging through the ranks, pulled by snorting beast-things. Lumbering bullgors smashed aside their own kin in their haste and greed. Kratus and his Prosecutors swooped low over the horde, striking at its edges, forcing the beastmen to draw together as Orius had planned. The creatures were funnelled straight towards Moros.

  ‘Fall back, Moros. Pull them in!’ Orius bellowed. He raised his sword and Tarkus sounded his horn in response. The Judicators began to retreat, firing as they went. The Liberator shield wall split, and the Judicators marched to the rear in good order, Moros accompanying them. As the Liberators locked shields once more, Tarkus and Galerius smashed into the enemy flanks, drawing their attentions from the retreating Judicators. Axes and hammers rose and fell, wreaking red ruin. The beastmen reeled in confusion.

  Orius saw Tarkus behead a braying gor chieftain. He caught sight of Galerius’ standard, rising above the carnage as the two warriors met amidst the slaughter and fought side-by-side. The enemy’s momentum dissolved, as the horde began to collapse in on itself. The stones of the courtyard were slick with blood and gore when Tarkus sounded the withdrawal.

  As swiftly as they had carved themselves a path into the belly of the beastherd, the Paladin retinues carved themselves an exit. They fought their way free with brutal speed, and the Prosecutors covered their retreat. Celestial hammers tore the ground, driving the scattered beastmen back together in a disordered mass.

  Like the animals they were, the creatures knew only one response to such fury. They lunged in fits and starts, no longer a fighting force, but instead a mass of berserk animals driven past the limits of their fragile self-control. They flung themselves forward with desperate savagery, fighting not for victory now, but for survival.

  The beastherd’s charge carried the foremost among them against the shield wall with a thunderous crash. Gors and ungors died, crushed between the shields of the Liberators and the bodies of those beastmen behind them, as the horde advanced unceasingly. Orius swept his hammer down. At his signal, Gorgus roared, ‘Forward!’

  The Liberators began to move, shoving their foes back. Orius followed them, ready to step into place if any of his warriors should fall. The beastmen were in disarray but they were not beaten. Not yet. Howling gors hacked wildly at the Liberators as ungors sought to squirm between the locked shields, stabbing and slashing with primitive stone blades. The bodies of the fallen, the wounded and the dying were trodden into the stones.

  ‘We shall not break!’ Orius roared, as he led the Liberators forward. His chamber spoke with him, as one. The growl of their war-song filled the air, and the thunder rumbled as if in accompaniment. And then, there was no more time for singing. Only for war.

  The stones of the Sulphur Citadel trembled and groaned. The walls and floor of the great chamber were smeared with the blood of fallen warriors. Of the eighty-eight chosen warriors who had accompanied Anhur to the citadel, only a few remained. All eighty-eight had descended into the chamber’s central crater at his command, and butchered one another without question. The flesh-shroud had soon been hidden by blood and bodies as warriors strove against one another in an orgy of violence, battling to prove their worth. Axes had bitten into exposed flesh, and swords had pierced vital organs. Where weapons failed, fists, feet and teeth had served, and as more bodies joined those of the fallen champions, the obsidian plates hanging in the air above had begun to rotate faster and faster.

  It had been an hour since the last of the dying collapsed, guts leaking from between his fingers, and Anhur had called for a halt. The bodies of the fallen had been dragged from the flesh-shroud and their blood and organs smeared and scattered across the chamber by Pazak’s hulking blightkings as the survivors ascended to join Anhur above the carnage. What was left of the dead had been strung from great chains fastened to the underside of the chamber roof, so that not a drop would be wasted. Only a few had been strong enough, blessed enough, to survive the butchery, and now these stood to the side, awaiting the Scarlet Lord’s notice.

  Anhur ignored them for the moment, his attention on something far greater. Axe resting in the crook of his arm, the Scarlet Lord stared up at scenes and moments visible in the cloud of blood which Pazak of the Faceted Eye had spread across the air beneath the rapidly spinning obsidian plates. Images of war rose and fell across the rippling surface of the pulsing void of blood, shredded flesh and splintered bone.

  ‘Glorious,’ Anhur murmured, as he watched the many kingdoms of the Igneous Delta and the Felstone Plains burn.

  In the swirling cloud of blood and offal, he saw flickering images of a thousand battles being waged across the world. Warriors clad in armour of gold and turquoise clashed with Bloodbound in the Ironpassage, fighting to control a realmgate to Chamon, the Realm of Metal. Mount Infernus, the largest fire-mountain of the triple-ringed Vulcanus Range and the greatest of the slaughter-pits, was besieged by more of these armoured invaders, as was the Seared Fortress in the Helwind Dale. Everywhere Anhur looked, there was war. And he found it good. He looked at Pazak.

  ‘Do you think they know, my friend?’ he asked the sorcerer. ‘Do you think that they understand the depths of our gratitude for this gift?’

  ‘No. Even I don’t understand, and I have stood by you for a century,’ Pazak said, as he manipulated the scrying spell. ‘Khul is under siege, and the Red Pyramid with him,’ he added.

  ‘And the living rage has fallen. They hold the Ironpassage, the Scintillating Portal...’ Anhur laughed. ‘Well, what pleasure is there in fighting an incompetent enemy, eh? I’ve seen enough. Show me what occurs on our doorstep.’

  Pazak gestured, his long fingers manipulating the air as if it were clay. The blood-cloud spasmed in response, fraying and darkening as the sorcerer forced its gaze elsewhere. Anhur saw the vast lava-tubes of Raxul, and the broken remnants of the duardin under-road. Enormous statues of glowering duardin kings gazed sightlessly down on the conflict raging at their feet. Amethyst-clad Stormcast Eternals fought against the warherds of the bray-king, and were steadily pushing the beastmen back. As he watched, the giant, stag-headed bray-king fought his way towards the leader of the Stormcasts, who met him with sword and hammer.

  ‘Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Show me the rim-citadel.’

  Pazak obliged, extending a hand and gesturing sharply. The blood billowed and thickened, and Anhur saw the familiar sight of the mighty basalt gates of Ytalan rising above the Great Southern Way. In the shadow of those looming gates, silver-armoured Stormcasts assaulted the undisciplined forces of the Queen of Swords. The queen herself led the defence, riding atop her scythe-wheeled chariot, leading her Brass Stampede into the ranks of the enemy.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Anhur said, without thinking. Part of him wished he were there – Ytalan had been his, once upon a time. His to rule, and he had done so well, for the most part. Until it, like everything else of worth, had been stripped from him. He forced down the rising anger. There would be time enough for that later. All the time in the world, he thought, glancing at the obsidian plates which still rotated above the centre of the chamber.

  ‘I do not see it myself,’ Pazak said. He motioned again, and the image faded and skewed, changing. ‘As you predicted, they assault the crater from every direction. The steam-ramparts of Balyx on the eastern rim have already fallen, and Sevenjaw-Jahd with them, the stupid brute.’

  ‘No loss there,’ Anhur said. ‘Balyx is too far away for them to reach us in time, even if they manage to fight their way through Sevenjaw’s remaining war-chiefs. And likely Vaxtl as well, for I wager old Chief Warhoof and his beastherds will make our foes pay for every bloody scrap of ground. What of the Mandrake Bastion?’ he asked.

  Pazak didn’t reply. Anhur looked at the throbbing blotch of blood, and saw golden-armoured fi
gures fighting against his forces atop the stone battlement. He laughed as he caught sight of a familiar figure, wielding hammer and sword with deadly skill. ‘The Hound of Ytalan,’ he murmured. ‘Oros, my friend, you do me such honour...’ He laughed again. ‘Look at him Pazak – look at him! He fights with the strength of a hundred lesser men.’

  ‘He is determined, I’ll give him that,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of that one at the Hissing Gates.’

  Anhur grunted. Memories of that day came swift and savage... a golden figure, charging through the boiling breath of countless geysers. The sound of their blades clashing... a moment of recognition... He shook his head.

  ‘Oros of Ytalan, at my throat again,’ he said. ‘Truly, Khorne smiles upon me.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll kill him this time?’ Apademak growled. As he spoke, Apademak ran a chunk of stone over the edge of his axe to sharpen it. The slaughterpriest squatted nearby, with the rest of Anhur’s Gorechosen, all save for the exalted deathbringer known as Vasa. They had all heard the boom of thunder and seen the flash of lightning through the far, high windows which lined the periphery of the dome. They knew as well as he what had come sweeping down with the storm, and were impatient to face it. Vasa alone had been given the honour of first blood, while Apademak and the others had remained in the Citadel at Anhur’s command.

  Vasa had earned his chance at glory – it had been his blow which had slain the grandmaster of the sulphur-knights, and won the Bloodbound the Bridge of Smoke. Anhur doubted the brute would see another dawn, but he would serve to obstruct the enemy’s advance.

  If Anhur mustered his forces now, the Stormcasts would be driven back. Not easily, or soon, but it could be done. But, such would defeat the entire purpose of this enterprise. Of all his Gorechosen, only the skullgrinder, Volundr, truly understood. Anhur didn’t turn as he answered Apademak.

  ‘Someone will, before the end.’

  ‘That is not an answer, my lord,’ Apademak said. The scratch of stone on steel grew more frenzied. ‘You had a chance to take his head at the Hissing Gates, and instead you stayed your hand. Khorne does not reward mercy, my lord... only victory.’

  ‘Yes, but victory takes many forms,’ Anhur said, still not looking at the slaughterpriest. He could feel the heat of his Gorechosen’s anger, and it amused him. Apademak took his duties quite seriously. He could not grasp the true scope of Anhur’s ambitions, for he existed in the moment. There was no future, no past for him... only the red now. But now was not good enough for Anhur. He had not come to Klaxus merely to cast it into ruin. No, he had come to drag it back into glory, one way or another.

  ‘No!’ Apademak snarled. Anhur heard him rise, and he saw Pazak tense. ‘No... victory is only measured in blood and skulls, Lord Anhur, and you would do well to remember that.’

  Anhur’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. He turned, and extended his axe towards Apademak. ‘Careful, Hungry One, or I’ll fill your belly with enough steel to satisfy even your cravings.’

  ‘Would you kill me for speaking the truth?’

  ‘I would kill you for any number of reasons, Apademak. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.’ Anhur swung his axe loosely and looked around. Strange shapes pushed and squirmed beneath the blood which coated the walls and floor. Half-formed daemon-shapes which thrashed like babies in their mother’s womb. And that, in truth, was what the Sulphur Citadel was to be, once the Black Rift had been opened – a womb of horrors, born of rage and slaughter. He glanced at the obsidian plates, noting how swiftly they now spun. Soon the power contained within them would grow too great to be contained and it would erupt, opening the way to Khorne’s realm.

  He could almost see the wonder and glory of the Brass Citadel in his mind’s eye – a veritable mountain range of bastions, battlements and forges, iron-bound walls and moats of boiling gore, and beyond them a fractured, infinite wasteland where eternal armies waged unending war in the name of he who watched it all from his throne of skulls. Such was Khorne’s realm, and Klaxus would be the same when Anhur was finished.

  But first, he had one final debt to pay.

  ‘Glorious,’ he murmured again. He glanced at Pazak. ‘How long?’

  Pazak sighed. ‘Hard to say. There is great power here. It lies athwart innumerable realms, touching all, but open to none. And while the stones sleep, so too shall the facets. We must awaken them, and that will require sacrifices. Many sacrifices.’ He held up his withered hands. ‘Do you feel it, my lord? The air is weighed down by centuries of indolence. The stones of this place are groggy with ennui, and not yet roused to their full hunger. We must whet their appetite...’ He gestured to the bodies of Anhur’s fallen warriors. ‘This was a start, nothing more.’

  ‘A start,’ Anhur repeated. He grunted. ‘We have captives aplenty, even now, after Apademak’s... excesses.’ The warlord cast a disapproving glance at the slaughterpriest. ‘And the Warpfang and his verminous lot are scouring Uryx for any survivors who might have escaped.’ He frowned, as he thought of the skaven. The ratkin were untrustworthy, but they had nonetheless proven themselves useful in his assault on the Tephran crater-kingdoms. More than once, it had been the cunning of the black-furred warlord, Warpfang, which had seen enemy bastions overthrown and gates opened. If the creature had been a man, Anhur might even have offered him a place amongst his Gorechosen. He would make no more strange a champion than Pazak.

  In hindsight, Anhur had to admit that sparing Pazak had been wise move. At the time, he had thought it merely a whim. The sorcerer had been a worthy foe, and his invasion of the Blister-Vents of the Alkali Basin had been entertaining, if unsuccessful. Khorne might despise sorcery, but Anhur knew that the Blood God valued victory more. And a sorcerer, in the end, was just another weapon to be aimed and let loose upon the foes of the Lord of Skulls.

  Pazak made a sharp gesture. ‘No. We need a finer vintage than that. We have stirred them with the blood of warriors. Now we must awaken them with the blood of champions. Then, and only then, can they batten on the blood of the conquered.’ He looked meaningfully in the direction of the survivors of the earlier massacre. ‘It is the best way I know to reveal the skull-roads and tear the veil between this world and that of the Blood God.’

  ‘Ahhh,’ Anhur murmured. He turned his attentions to the survivors. He knew them all – Yan the Foul, Grindlespine, Kung of the Long Arm, Baron Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress, Skullripper, and Redjaw the Resplendent... Monsters and madmen. Their stories, like his own, were acts of brute heroism raised dripping from the cauldron of slaughter which was Aqshy.

  Yan the Foul wore a grisly mask made from the stitched flesh of Bromnir, the last duardin king of the Firewalk, and a cloak made from the beards of the fallen king’s drakeguard. Grindlespine had cracked the fire domes of the Magmatic Crescent, putting their populations to the axe – eight million skulls, shattered on the anvils of Khorne. Kung of the Long Arm, a giant of a man who bore a screeching daemon-blade crafted from the bones of his brother, had cast down the silk standards of the horse-lords of the Calderan Plains.

  In contrast to the deeds of those three, Baron Aceteryx had thrown open the gates of Scorian Bastion to Anhur’s warhorde and had participated in the massacre of his own people in return for the promise of power – power which had come in the form of armour crafted from the butchered flesh and splintered bone of those he had betrayed. Unlike Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress had earned her name in the deeps of the Ashdwell, where she had led her tribesmen in the extermination of the innumerable orruks who laired there, offering up their bestial skulls to Khorne.

  The last two were even more monstrous than their fellows. Skullripper, clad in piecemeal war-plate scavenged from a thousand battlefields, had led the charge at the Sun Gate into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade, and his bestial mien and size spoke of Khorne’s favour. And Redjaw... Redjaw was a monster among mo
nsters, whose face was hidden beneath a scarlet helm wrought in the shape of a flesh hound’s muzzle, and who wore a cloak dyed in the metallic blood of the seven child-kings of Cinder.

  Monsters and madmen, Anhur thought. These were the tools that Khorne allowed him, the blunt instruments by which he would carve a new order. The Blood God did not believe in easy victories. Anhur looked at Pazak.

  ‘I shall give you your sacrifice, sorcerer, and find three new champions in the process.’

  He had entered the Tephra Crater with eight champions as was proper, but three had fallen in the battles which followed. Otalyx of Spharos had died on the Bridge of Smoke, battling the sulphur-knights of Klaxus, and both Bolgatz Bonehammer and the slaughterpriest, Grundyx Five-Scars, had fallen in the taking of the citadel. He suspected that Apademak had killed Grundyx – slaughterpriests were a competitive lot, always seeking the eye of the Blood God. He raised his voice.

  ‘There must be eight, else Khorne will turn his gaze from us. Eight Gorechosen, to serve at my side. So must it be, so shall it be.’

  Anhur turned, facing the expectant survivors. They knew what was coming. It was a ritual older than Aqshy itself, one of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood by the first of the slaughterpriests at Khorne’s command. The rite of the Gorechosen.

  ‘They say,’ Anhur began, ‘that Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows. But that is not wholly true.’ He spread his arms. ‘Sometimes only the right blood will satiate him, only the worthiest skulls will please him – you know this, as well as I, my warriors. Not the blood of slaves. Worthy blood and worthy skulls.’

  ‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the waiting warriors murmured as one. Behind Anhur, Apademak struck the floor with his axe. Berstuk joined him, and Hroth, until the air quivered with the shriek of metal on stone.