‘My Gorechosen have lost their brothers,’ Anhur said, raising his voice to be heard over the clangour. ‘Even now, Vasa fights in their name, in all of our names. Who would join him in his glories? He swept his axe out, indicating Apademak and the others, as they moved to join him. ‘Three have fallen, and so three must rise. Three worthy skulls!’
‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the warriors chanted. ‘Blood for the Blood God.’
‘Who will stand forth? Who will walk the axe’s edge?’ Anhur thundered. ‘Eight there must be – eight to stand at my side, eight to build the skull-road, eight to kill in Khorne’s name!’ He swept his arms out, indicating the others who stood beside him. ‘Stand forth and declare thy worth. Stand forth and be judged.’
A sudden skirl interrupted whatever might have come next, and the tramp of marching feet filled the air. Anhur turned to see a column of armoured skaven marching across the chamber towards them. At Pazak’s gesture, the blightkings stepped aside. The skaven warlord, Kretch Warpfang, marched at the head of the column.
Warpfang was a burly example of his kind, bigger and stronger than most. His red war-plate had been burnished to a blinding sheen by his slaves, and his black fur groomed and stiffened by fatty unguents. In one paw, he carried a halberd. Its haft had been cut down so that it was easier to wield. In his other paw, he carried a spiked mace, its head shot through with glimmering veins of warpstone. A replacement fang made from the same had been fitted into his scarred muzzle at some point, and it glimmered strangely amid a thicket of scar tissue. ‘I bid thee greetings, most savage man-thing lord,’ Warpfang snarled as he brought his warriors to a halt a safe distance from the Bloodbound.
‘Why are you here, vermin?’ Apademak called, stepping forward. ‘You were not summoned. You dare show your muzzle here – now? You interrupt one of our most sacred rites! I should crush your cowardly skull.’
Anhur gestured and the slaughterpriest subsided, glowering at the skaven.
‘Speak, Warpfang,’ the Scarlet Lord said.
‘We bring more-many slaves, yes-yes,’ Warpfang said to Anhur, ignoring Apademak. The skaven looked around. ‘More for the slaughter, yes? As you asked.’
‘Asked?’ Anhur said. He laughed. The ratkin were, for the most part, a cowardly lot, but Warpfang showed little inclination to cower. The creature had a high opinion of himself, and Anhur often had to resist the urge to teach the skaven the meaning of humility.
‘You have brought chattel,’ he said, more loudly. The skaven cocked his head, eyes narrowed.
‘Yes-yes. Chattel. Man-things. Slaves.’
‘And is that the only reason, brave Warpfang? Is that why you have interrupted us, in this most sacred moment?’ Anhur glanced at Pazak as he spoke. It had been the sorcerer who had first made contact with the ratkin and recommended the alliance. Pazak and Warpfang knew each other of old. The sorcerer smiled thinly, and Anhur had to restrain a laugh.
‘No,’ Warpfang said. He thumped his chest-plate with his mace, unleashing a flash of green sparks. ‘Warpfang will be Gorechosen! Warpfang will kill-kill!’
‘Kill, Warpfang, kill!’ the rest of the skaven shrieked, as one. The black-furred ratmen drove the hafts of their halberds against the stone floor as they chanted, nearly drowning out the singing of Redjaw’s followers. ‘Kill, Warpfang, kill! Kill, Warpfang, kill!’
‘Arrogant vermin,’ Apademak snarled. He whirled, glaring at Anhur. ‘He makes mockery of us and of this sacred moment. But say the word, my lord, and I shall offer up his wretched heart for your pleasure.’
Anhur raised his hand, silencing the slaughterpriest. ‘Speak, my friends. What say you, my champions?’ He looked at the others. ‘Pazak? I know you encouraged him in this.’ How else would he have known what was occurring here, he thought, unless you told him. Only mortals devoted to Khorne could join the ranks of the Gorechosen, but Warpfang would be useful regardless, if he survived. And his presence would annoy Apademak no end.
‘He’s an ambitious little maniac,’ the sorcerer said, with a shrug. ‘Crazy even by skaven standards. He’ll make a fine champion if he survives.’ He looked at Anhur. ‘Grandfather Nurgle long ago made common cause with the children of the Horned Rat, and it has ever been to our benefit. Would you turn down a weapon because it does not look as you wish?’
‘I agree. Let him fight. His blood will grease the wheels of some worthier champion’s victory,’ Berstuk said, thumping the stones with the haft of his bone portal. The scar-faced bloodsecrator laughed. ‘Besides, I never grow tired of their squeals.’
‘He makes for eight,’ Hroth said, testing the edge of one of his axes with his thumb. The deathbringer gave a gap-toothed smile. ‘An auspicious sign, whatever else, my lord. I agree with my brothers – let him fight.’
‘The Lord of Skulls has a million beasts, but precious few beast-masters. All who think themselves worthy must have a chance to prove it,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He cannot stand as Gorechosen, but if he lives... he is worthy to serve.’
‘But he is nothing – he is a mere pest!’ Apademak sputtered, glaring at the skullgrinder. He looked at Anhur. ‘He does not even follow the Eightfold Path...’
‘Even vermin can kill,’ Pazak interjected. ‘And is that not the only worship Khorne demands? I do not follow your path, yet here I am, at the Scarlet Lord’s right hand, not one of his Gorechosen, but a weapon nonetheless.’
Apademak flushed and opened his mouth to retort, but Anhur cut him off with a curt gesture. ‘Quiet. The Eight are mine to choose, how I wish. The rat shall fight. If Warpfang wins, he may not be Gorechosen, but he will join you at my side, and be welcome. War is the great leveller, Apademak. It raises up and casts down, in equal measure. All who serve it are welcome at my side in this undertaking.’ He hefted his axe. ‘Fight,’ he said, as he brought his axe down and embedded it in the stones at his feet. ‘Fight and die for the glory of Khorne!’
For a moment, the only sound was the echo of Anhur’s cry. Then Phastet stepped forward lightly, her sword springing into her hand as she moved. In the same, smooth motion, she slashed out, opening Yan’s throat to the bone with the serrated blade. She whirled around him as he staggered forward and brought her sword down between his shoulders, driving him to his knees. The huntress continued to hack at him as he slumped, her eyes alight with feral joy.
‘A true daughter of Khorne,’ Volundr murmured.
As if Phastet’s sudden assault had been a signal, Skullripper gave a guttural howl and charged Kung. The two warriors began to trade heavy blows, even as Baron Aceteryx, ever the opportunist, circled them, a flail of brass and iron swinging from one hand and a basket-hilted sword in the other.
‘What odds do you lay, Shieldbreaker?’ Berstuk growled, watching the duel intently. ‘The Skullripper or Kung?’
‘Kung,’ Hroth said, scratching his chin with the edge of his axe. ‘He fought beside me at Oruxx... But then, the Baron is quick. Khorne may favour him, even as he favours Grindlespine.’ The warrior in question was advancing on Warpfang. Horny growths of bone and red scale covered Grindlespine, and he wore little armour. Antlers sprouted from seeping wounds in his head and he’d chewed his own lips to ragged tatters, exposing blackened fangs. He hefted a two-handed sword and stamped forward, swinging it about his malformed head.
Warpfang lunged forward, ducking beneath Grindlespine’s blade as it looped out. The skaven rolled to his feet and his halberd chopped into the back of the aspiring champion’s leg. Grindlespine howled and sank down to one knee. Warpfang bounded to his feet and spun, his mace crashing into the back of the hobbled warrior’s skull. The skaven was already moving as Grindlespine pitched forward.
Pazak whooped, earning him a glare from Apademak. Warpfang leapt onto Kung’s back, using his halberd as an anchor. The blade sank into Kung’s shoulder-plate and the giant roared and staggered as he tried to dislodge the skaven. Skullripper tr
ied to take advantage of the distraction, but Baron Aceteryx sprang forward and drove his basket-hilted blade through a gap in the brute’s armour.
Skullripper stumbled and whirled, swiping at the Baron even as Phastet darted towards him, her saw-edged sword chopping down on his arm. Skullripper gave a keening wail and spun to face her. Aceteryx came at him again, smashing his flail down on Skullripper’s head. The brute sank down as the two warriors struck him again and again. Kung staggered towards them, still clawing at Warpfang, who clung stubbornly to his perch.
‘Three down,’ Anhur said. His pulse quickened as the scent of newly-spilled blood filled the air and the others had begun to chant, reciting the eight hundred and eighty-eight names of the Lord of Skulls as they clashed their weapons and stamped their feet.
Pazak silently pointed at the obsidian plates spinning above the fight. They had begun to glow softly and the blood was running freely across the stones of the chamber.
‘They awaken, my lord,’ the sorcerer murmured. Anhur laughed.
In the crater, Kung backhanded Aceteryx and knocked him sprawling. Redjaw whirled forward, his spear darting out, snake-quick, to pierce Kung’s eye. The screeching axe made a sound like a sob as it tumbled from its wielder’s hand and fell to the ground. Kung leaned forward, held upright by Redjaw, until the champion stepped aside and tore the spear free with a single motion.
‘Four down,’ Apademak said, gleefully. ‘Redjaw has it!’
‘Not if the vermin has anything to say about it,’ Hroth said, slapping the slaughterpriest on the shoulder. Apademak turned and glared angrily at him, but said nothing.
Warpfang rode the body to the ground, and then leapt at Redjaw. They moved back and forth, almost faster than the eye could follow, weapons clashing again and again. Warpfang nimbly avoided every thrust, even as Redjaw blocked every riposte. As they moved about, trading blows, Phastet crept towards Aceteryx. The Baron rose unsteadily to his feet and the huntress’ too-wide mouth split in an ear-to-ear grin, revealing shark-like teeth. She lunged and the Baron turned, but not quickly enough.
Her jagged blade shattered as it crunched down on Aceteryx’s helm, but the force of the blow drove him to one knee. Phastet gave him no chance to recover – she jerked a short-hafted orruk axe from her belt and prepared to strike. But before she could, Anhur roared, ‘Enough!’
Panting, Warpfang stepped back and Redjaw lowered his spear. Baron Aceteryx clambered to his feet. Phastet had claimed Kung’s axe for her own and murmured quietly to it as she joined the others. The warriors looked up at the Scarlet Lord expectantly, to where he and his Gorechosen watched from the top of the small crater. Anhur spread his arms.
‘Enough. You have won. Three to replace the fallen, and one more besides.’
He tore his axe free of the stones and raised it over his head. ‘Blood for the Blood God. Blood and skulls for Khorne!’ The newly-made Gorechosen echoed his cry, raising their weapons. Even Warpfang and his skaven joined in, screeching wordlessly.
Satisfied, Anhur lowered his axe. ‘Victory, at the cost of pain. Suffering is our toll, to walk the skull-road.’ He looked at Pazak. ‘Is it enough?’
‘It’s a start,’ the sorcerer said. ‘This place has slumbered for centuries... even before the coming of the Ruinous Powers. It will take more blood – seas of it, to open the way. We must baptise this place in the blood of its people.’
Anhur nodded slowly. Is it all that you hoped it would be, Anhur of Ytalan? The voice rose up out of the dark of him, prying and digging at his certainties. Will you save your people by slaughtering them? Will you save the kingdom by destroying it? The warlord snarled and shook his head. The voice faded and he looked down at his axe, seeking strength. He traced the rune of Khorne, carved into the flat of the blade, and growled. ‘So be it.’ He turned to Warpfang. ‘More slaves. More slaves, more blood, more skulls. The way must be opened, whatever else. We have come too far to falter now.’
He lifted his axe, and felt a savage joy fill him, driving back his doubts. ‘I will drown Klaxus in the blood of its people, if that is what it takes,’ he bellowed, and his Gorechosen roared out their agreement.
As they did so, the Scarlet Lord heard again the rumble of distant thunder and smiled.
‘Now... now we come to it at last, Oros, my friend,’ he murmured. The enemy had come, as he had known they would. ‘Now, we will see.’
Now, the true battle for Klaxus could begin.
The Adamantine shield wall pressed on, killing as they marched. Orius led them forward, striking down snarling beasts with every blow. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, winding above the clangour of battle, but he had lost sight of the others in the advance. Every so often, the sky lit up with lightning, as Moros called down the storm, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. The Scarlet Lord had hundreds of herds of beastmen in his army, and it seemed as if many of them were here, now, trying to slaughter his warriors.
Suddenly, an all-too familiar flail of skulls swept down from out of the press, smashing an unlucky Liberator to the ground. Beastmen fell upon the warrior and hairy hands dragged him struggling into the depths of the horde. Even as Orius stepped up to take his place, a bolt of blue lightning streaked upwards, signalling the fallen warrior’s return to Azyr. Anger thrummed through the Lord-Celestant as he moved to confront the creature called Vasa.
The monstrous deathbringer, his gibbet-banner clattering, loomed over Orius. Red eyes bulged and slaver dripped from his muzzle as he bellowed wordlessly in challenge. He swung his flail down, and Orius slashed out with his runeblade, chopping through the chains. The deathbringer stumbled back, stamping clumsily on a squealing ungor. He tossed the ruined weapon aside with a bellicose snarl and reached for Orius, clawed fingers wide.
‘I will crush your skull, and offer up the fragments to Khorne!’ the brute roared.
The Lord-Celestant stepped forward quickly, avoiding Vasa’s grasp. He drove his hammer up, into the leonine warrior’s jaw. Bone crunched and the deathbringer staggered, eyes rolling wildly. Before his opponent could recover, Orius opened Vasa’s stomach with a single slash of his runeblade. The giant champion sank down with a morose grunt, claws clasped to his gut. As he sought to rise, Orius split his skull.
‘He can have yours instead,’ he said, watching as his foe twitched his last. He looked up, and saw that the shield wall had pressed forward without him. The Stormcasts had driven the foe before them, sweeping them back out of the courtyard. And with the fall of the monstrous deathbringer, their will to fight had seemingly evaporated.
‘They’re on the run,’ Tarkus said, as he trotted towards Orius. He looked none the worse for wear, despite the gore which streaked his armour. At the other end of the courtyard, the Stormcasts had driven the remnants of the warherd back, against the outer walls. Orius judged that only the swiftest would manage to escape into Uryx. Judicator retinues moved to man the broken walls and Prosecutors kept watch from the air, just in case the remaining beastkin regrouped more quickly than expected. The Knight-Heraldor kicked a goatish head aside as he joined Orius. ‘Now’s the time to advance, if we’re going to do it.’
‘Indeed,’ Orius said. ‘The Prosecutors will collapse as much of the city to either side of us as they can and block it off from any advance once they regroup. That will keep our foes off our flanks as we press forward.’ The Lord-Celestant looked at Kratus, who had joined them, wings folded behind his back.
The Knight-Azyros nodded and signalled to one of the Prosecutor retinues circling overhead. They swooped towards him and he motioned sharply. The Prosecutor-Prime of the retinue raised one of his hammers in salute. Orius watched the interaction curiously. In all the years he had known the Knight-Azyros, Kratus had never spoken, for reasons known only to himself and Sigmar. Nonetheless, he made himself understood. The warriors of the Adamantine had learned to read volumes from the Silent One’s simplest gesture
. As the Prosecutors swooped off, the sound of collapsing stone and cracking wood rose up from the city below, momentarily drowning out all other sounds.
The noise rose up, throbbing on the air, as Orius, joined by the rest of his auxiliary commanders, climbed onto the courtyard walls. It pulsed for several moments, beating against their ears like a monstrous heartbeat.
‘The fire,’ Galerius began, as the echoes faded. Moros shook his head.
‘The jungle,’ the Lord-Relictor said, softly. ‘I can feel it. Something has provoked it. It is unfettered, for the first time in millennia. It is... hungry and eager.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Soon it will devour the city and everything in it. The magic of the priest-kings... it held this city together. Now they’re dead, and the city dies with them.’ He hesitated. ‘Furthermore, something grows in the rot. I can feel it. A war-wind blows, my Lord-Celestant. Our enemy came here for a dread reason, I think.’
‘Whatever it is, we must move quickly. The inner gates will need to be opened if we are to win our way into the city proper,’ Orius said as he peered out across the terraces and plazas of the outer city. The jungle encroached here more than elsewhere. It always had, something told him. A jagged splinter of memory thrust its way upward, pricking him. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the rasp of the hot wind across stones and bark.
He saw a face, heard a familiar laugh. A man he had fought under, whom he had called friend. A man he had followed from the basalt crags of Ytalan, through the Ashen Jungles, in the name of justice. What happened to you... to us? he wondered. The question held him tight. It refused to release him, no matter how he tried to thrust it back into the shadows of memory. Orius could see more faces: allies, friends, brothers. There had been unrest in Klaxus, after the war with Raxul. Pogroms and bodies stacked in the streets. The priest-kings had called them home, but Anhur had not marched on their behalf – no, the Prince of Ytalan had been determined to topple the old, corrupt regime. To replace it with something better.
The Black Rift of Klaxus: In the Walls of Uryx Page 3