by Rob Sanders
Archaon swung for all he was worth, pledging with taut lips before gritted teeth everything he was to whatever foetid god or power would grant him the daemon’s death. As the tip of Terminus grazed Be’lakor’s star-scarred chest and nicked the black flesh of an arm, the Chaos warrior thought that his dark prayers had been answered. The blessed blade came into contact with Be’lakor’s form; the wretched skin steamed away to shadow, drawing a stifled cry from the beast. Instead of withdrawing, the monster came back at Archaon with the full fury of his diabolical will. He, Be’lakor – first of the daemon princes – would not be bested by a mortal, a thing of mere flesh and blood, even if that blood was his own.
Be’lakor brought his huge, leathery wings in tight and spun around with all the devastating grace his dread form would allow. As the monster’s blade seared around with him, it solidified to a great cleaving edge of streaming shadow. Archaon saw the manoeuvre but could do little to counter its devastating progress. Be’lakor was not of the world. He was a creature of the beyond and as such he moved. Archaon just got his shield up in time. He felt the blade cleave across the mauled shield’s breadth and the force of the blow through his whole body. With the tips of his boots scraping the marble floor, Archaon felt himself smashed into a nearby wall. He hit it, shattering the stone about his cursed plate, before dropping into a clattering pile.
Coughing up blood, Archaon smacked the cross guard of Terminus against his helm to bring him back to his senses. He felt the quake of the daemon’s furious approach and got shakily to his feet. He held the mangled shield out before him. The metal was offering next to no protection now. Archaon could only hope the eight-pointed star that adorned it and the diabolical sponsors it represented still offered some protection. The monstrous blow came. Archaon went through the weakened wall this time, sliding across the marble floor of the adjacent chamber with chunks of stone debris. Be’lakor stepped through the opening he had made, his broad shoulders and wings tearing further stone down about them. He was the fury and fear of a midnight storm. The dazed Archaon scrabbled mindlessly to his feet. Vanquished from his thoughts were the impulses and justifications for seeking out his father-in-shadow. There was only room in the stone- and sword-smacked skull for ghostly notions of survival.
Archaon was up but Be’lakor was before him. Once again he was in the terrible path of Be’lakor’s blade. The tip of the sword trailed a smear of shadow like a black comet. A bad omen for Archaon. The Chaos warrior got his weapon between him and the blur of the daemon’s blade. The impact smashed Terminus from Archaon’s gauntleted grip, sending the greatsword clanging off into the darkness. Instinctively Archaon brought up his shield but it was smacked aside by a backslash full of infernal spite. The daemon followed through on his turn, bringing the muscular weight of his tail around. The force of the blow sent Archaon straight through the body of a marble pillar, sending the Chaos warrior to the ground once more in a cloud of dust and pulverised stone.
Something had broken. Even the armour of Morkar had failed to protect him from the brute force of his father’s fury. The bones of his right arm were shattered. He could feel the sharp ache grow to a burning uselessness. He groaned. He crawled. He got to his feet and put his armoured back to another thick pillar. The column exploded above him, showering the Chaos warrior with rock and grit. Be’lakor was there. Tearing the Forsaken Fortress apart. Smashing through every balcony, stairwell and pillar with his sword of shadow. The daemon’s bellow shook the vaulted chamber, drawing further falling stone from the ceiling. Archaon moved from pillar to fat pillar. His arm raged. His stomach felt sick with the cowardly necessities of survival and empty with the realities of reason: he could not realise his true destiny if he were dead. Archaon suspected that few, if any, could have lasted as long against the First Daemon Prince of Chaos. It gave him the coldest of comforts for, as the Chaos warrior worked his way through the chamber, weaving between pillars and negotiating spaces, he came to understand that he had failed. He would not learn the secrets of his father-in-shadow’s black heart. He could not compel the creature to act against his own interests by leaving him alone, and he had failed in destroying the abomination.
His hand ached – not only from the torments of shattered bones – but also for his sword. It felt something less than a limb without it. As the shadow storm of his father’s rage swept through the chamber, Archaon tried to concentrate. His sight was useless in the inky twilight of the palace. The darksight of his ruined eye gave him an impression of his surroundings. All about him was stone saturated with evil and, in the presence of such material, Archaon’s own darkness cast less of a shadow. This made making out anything beyond his immediate surroundings all but impossible. Unencumbered by such concerns, the Eye of Sheerian – set in the faceplate of his helm – found Terminus for him. Like an image surfacing slowly from the dark depths, Archaon could make out the shape of the blade at the foot of a flight of black steps. With nothing to reflect in the lightless environs of the palace, all Archaon could make out was the spiritual torment of the blade, bleeding from the steel, as it lay on the cursed stone of the floor. Then he noticed it. The silence. The absence of fury and thunder.
You cannot hide from me, shadow-son of mine, Be’lakor’s voice rumbled through the darkness. Not here in my palace. The voice was everywhere, bouncing about the perverse, flowing architecture of the Forsaken Fortress. Not anywhere. There is not a place on this mortal-infested ball of rock that I will not find you, Archaon. I am Be’lakor. First prince of the…
A shiver snaked its way down Archaon’s spine. The voice was everywhere but Be’lakor was towering right behind him. Wings outstretched. Arms up. Sword of shadow ready to come down.
Archaon grunted before accelerating away. Step by step, the Chaos warrior urged himself on across the chamber, towards the steps and his sword before them. He felt the marble give way behind him as Be’lakor’s downward strike stove in the floor. Leaping the hole, the daemon snarled. A beat of its colossal wings took it surging on after the Chaos warrior, each of its massive strides effortlessly outpacing Archaon’s own. Archaon jumped – a decapitating swipe of the shadow blade streaming just above his head. Hitting the floor was painful – shockwaves of agony pulsing through his broken arm. Skidding through the grit on his breastplate, Archaon slid across the marble floor, left arm outstretched for the hilt of Terminus. Crunching to a stop a grasping finger’s length from the blade, Archaon reached out. The shattered shield was heavy on his arm and the fingertips of his gauntlet clawed desperately at the floor. Dust and grit swirled about him as he felt the daemon’s wings beat above. Be’lakor had leapt also, his wings slowing his descent and the great claws of his feet anchoring into the stone floor either side of Archaon’s prone form. Again the sword of shadow reared.
Rolling round to see the daemon prince, Archaon flung around his arm and sent the shattered shield spinning up at the monster’s groin. Archaon had no idea what the creature kept under the loincloth of black mail and had no desire to know. The daemon grunted as the shield hit him and doubled, abandoning the swing. Archaon rolled back the other way, bringing the flat of his boot around to catch the daemon in the jaw. It was satisfying but did little to stop the furious Be’lakor who reared once more, hatred churning furiously in his eyes. Archaon rolled. There was little else he could do. The colossal length of the sword smashed down through the marble creating a crater. As the weapon descended – like a black thunderbolt tossed down from the heavens – Archaon reached desperately once more for Terminus. But the templar sword was gone. Rolling out of the devastating path of Be’lakor’s blade, Archaon followed his sword down into the crater, only to find that the sword had smashed straight through both the floor and the ceiling of the chamber below.
It was a long drop. It seemed longer still in the tumbling darkness. With a sickening thud the Chaos warrior hit stone. He was getting used to the skull-cracking sensation. With an involuntary moan, he brought up his h
ead and began clawing for Terminus in the descending debris. Stamping down through the weakened stone, Be’lakor had dropped down on outstretched wings. The floor shook as he hit it, producing a bounce and a jangle from Terminus that brought the metal digits of Archaon’s left hand to it. Getting shakily to his feet, Archaon slouched around, holding his broken sword arm in close and offering the trembling blade of Terminus in the other.
Why do you bring such torment to both of us? Be’lakor asked, striding across the chamber and readying his huge, black blade for the killing blow. Why not just simply stay down and end this suffering? Why not simply die?
‘Never…’ Archaon told the daemon prince. He gestured with the Sigmarite blade in his left hand. It felt awkward and unnatural.
‘…and never.’
Then you give me no choice, Be’lakor thundered, his dread voice a darkness all of its own. Be’lakor brought up his blade. Archaon brought up his own, prepared to receive the full force of the strike on Terminus and his left arm. Suddenly Archaon was flying back through the air. The sword strike never came. Instead, the daemon’s great clawed foot kicked him in his armoured stomach. Again the sickening slam of stone passed through his body. It was uncompromising. It was agony. It was over. Archaon fell. A great deal further than a floor of the palace or a stairwell. Archaon suddenly realised that he was outside again. That Be’lakor had kicked him straight through the palace wall and back out into the chill mire of the Pustular Plain. When he hit the ground it was mercifully soft. He felt the cold, dank waters of the slush-logged tundra explore his plate for a point of entry. The stinking waters spilled in through the eyeslits of his helm as he struggled to keep his head above the rank surface. He fought to stabilise himself in the mire. As he did so, Archaon found the light from the surrounding rash of volcanic peaks almost blinding after the absolute darkness of the Forsaken Fortress. With his helm just above the surface of the ice-threaded bog, Archaon slowed his movements. He knew that thrashing about in the primordial mulch would only drag him deeper. The Chaos warrior grunted. He was in deep enough already.
Above him the towering dread of the Forsaken Fortress loomed higher than ever. The nightmare lines of its design and construction cut a diabolical shape from the volcanic haze beyond. Archaon could see the ragged hole his exit had made in the smooth black marble of the palace. From the darkness within the darkness, Archaon saw a pair of daemonic eyes fixed on him. Be’lakor. His tormentor. His soul-sworn foe. His father-in-shadow.
Archaon…
‘Dark Master…’
Archaon of the North… Be’lakor’s dread words burned like a numbing cold through his mind. It is time to return home, my son. Three Ruinous treasures, the Southern Wastes had to offer the Everchosen of Chaos. Three treasures you have claimed. You already bear the eternally burning Mark of Chaos – but now you must prove yourself worthy of it.
‘Do not lecture me on worthiness, monster,’ Archaon snarled. ‘I will achieve what has been eternally denied to you – the favour of the Dark Gods.’
The final two treasures will test you as none before have.
‘As I will be your test, creature of darkness,’ Archaon told his father-in-shadow, ‘if you attempt to take from me what is mine by Ruinous right. A test you will lose, Be’lakor.’
The wind picked up. Sheltered within the marble confines of the infernal palace, Archaon had all but forgotten the glacial bite of the Wasteland wind. Even here it frosted the volcano sides and scorched the percolating tundra of any reed or shrub foolish enough to reach up out of the mire. Archaon sensed something strange about the building gale. It seemed heavy with the cursed power that leaked perpetually from the pole – as though it were burdened with some fell purpose. As it moaned about the contours of the Forsaken Fortress, Archaon noticed that the palace was bleeding away on the breeze. Speck by black speck of dust and darkness, the monstrous building was being carried away. Fading to nothing, Be’lakor and his palace would ride the perverse winds of the dark continent, to accrete elsewhere – appearing at random from the frozen maelstrom.
Up to his neck in the mire, with his cursed plate dragging him down, Archaon knew there was nothing he could do. Even if he could crawl his way back to the palace and begin again his doomed ascent, the Chaos warrior feared that there was little left to lay his hands on. The Forsaken Fortress and its Dark Master were now but a fading, phantasmic vision in this haunted realm. The swiftest of steeds and cold steel alone had failed to bring his father-in-shadow to account. The daemon Be’lakor would not relinquish his puppet strings. Archaon would have to find some other way of cutting himself free of destiny’s tangled web.
The north, Archaon…
Be’lakor’s words trailed away with the streaming shadow of his palace. The Forsaken Fortress was gone.
‘Aye, the north, you ruthless thing,’ Archaon rumbled, ‘but sooner than you think.’
As the wind died down, Archaon saw the monstrous form of Dorghar approach. The Steed of the Apocalypse trudged warily through the mire towards him, its hooves splayed like webbed feet to spread the stallion’s weight on the sinking surface of the frozen bog. The reins that Archaon had hooked over the dread architecture of the palace now hung loose from the steed’s steaming snout. Venturing as far as it dared, Dorghar whipped its head back and forth, casting the reins out across the stinking space between it and the sinking Chaos warrior. Resting Terminus on the bubbling surface, Archaon reached out with his gauntlet, snatching at the rotting mulch of the marshy tundra. When he finally had the reins in his grasp, Archaon held on as the daemonic mount stamped back through the mire, hauling him from the vice-like embrace of the bog. Dragging him to solid ground, Dorghar snorted its infernal derision as the Chaos warrior got back his breath – not only from his efforts in the swamp but also the titanic battle that had preceded it.
Tearing Terminus from the mire, Archaon sat up and regarded the blade. It reeked like he did and was filth-splattered like his armour. The Chaos warrior sat quietly with the dull ache of his arm and his dark thoughts for a moment. He finally turned to Dorghar, who was snorting beside him. The glassy inferno of the steed’s daemon eyes fixed on the Chaos warrior. Archaon gave it back a baleful glare of his own.
‘What the hell… are you looking at?’ Archaon put to the creature, but steam simply streamed from the steed’s snout. Getting up and sliding the filthy blade into its fur scabbard, Archaon mounted the steed, clutching his broken arm to his side. The monstrous mount seemed to wait for instructions. Archaon grunted. It would be a long way back.
‘On, you darknid thing,’ Archaon told it, digging gently at its flanks with the heels of his boots. ‘Back to the Gatelands. To the pole, where – darkness willing – we shall re-join the horde. Then north… as my father says, to march on fresh insanities at the top of the world.’
Chapter VI
‘Agrammon – Slave-Lord and Daemon Lord of Slaanesh. Caged within his own menagerie – the captive of greed. One of the many horrors on show.’
– Ledger Bestiarie
The Gatelands
The Southern Wastes
Horns Harrowing: Season of the Ravening
It took Dorghar longer to reach the polar Gatelands than it had to reach the Pustular Plains. In part the daemonic creature had all but spent itself – first in its efforts to rid itself of its unwelcome rider and secondly under Archaon’s insistence that they reach the Forsaken Fortress before it moved on. Broken by the Chaos warrior, the daemon steed would not subject its master to the dangers of its swiftest forms. While the agonies of bolt and flame had taken Archaon from the continental interior, it was a relatively tranquil journey back. Sitting astride the back of a huge bat-like monstrosity with a colossal wing-span, effortless beats of Dorghar’s wings took Archaon for leagues across the thermals of volcanic ranges and above the ice storms below. Using the sorcerous power of the Eye of Sheerian, Archaon guided Dorghar towards the howli
ng vortex at the pole.
Coming in low across bleeding glaciers, horrific frost-shattered landscapes and rolling oceans of black snow, Dorghar descended. The crooked spires and fortified ruins of infernal palaces and daemonic redoubts crowded the lands about the shattered gate. Their tower tops and dereliction created a serrated horizon, beyond which the horrific radiance spewed into the world. Between the rancid structures – forming as they did skyward sigils in their layout and decorated with bones, flayed skin and rotting bodies – were battlefields both old and new. Armies of household beastfiends clashed with infernal royalty in the mulch of past massacres. Daemon princes fought flocks of furies, while spawn-warriors – blessed in their monstrosity – savaged hordes of infernal horrors. Archaon felt the gaze of gods on such conflicts, as creatures slaughtered their foes with dark oaths and the death spray of ichor.
Then Archaon saw it. His own horde of bestial savages. The army had taken to the field both in the spiked shadow of Lord Agrammon’s tower palace and in advance of the orders Archaon had left with them. They were hacking their way through Slaaneshi fiends, daemonettes and all manner of liberated monstrosity – creatures of Chaos who, upon achieving their freedom, had set upon the first prey they had found outside the metal walls of the menagerie.
Beating its leathery wings as it came in to land, Dorghar cleared an area of Lord Agrammon’s palace guard. Sliding down off the flea-eaten back of the monstrous bat, Archaon drew Terminus with his left hand. His right hung numb, shattered and painful at his side. As taper-snouted beastfiends dragged themselves back to their hooves – the low creatures having been knocked down by Dorghar’s flapping descent – they experienced the dubious welcome of the Sigmarite sword’s filth-encrusted steel. Like many knights, Archaon favoured his right hand for such a heavy blade. His movements betrayed a subtle awkwardness – a sluggish jarring in the shoulder and wrist that many years of practice and the comfort of unthinking preference had fashioned into a deft, fluid set of movements that almost achieved the status of reflex. The great sword still sat in the grip of a seasoned warrior, however. It was wielded with discipline, skill and a savage strength born of a knight’s righteous prosecution of his duties. Such duties may have changed for Archaon, but his templar training served him well. As Archaon strode through Slaaneshi deviants, he whipped the heavy blade from side to side, cleaving beastfiends back into earth baked with the unnatural energies pouring from the shattered gate.