by C. L. Werner
'Sergeant Albrecht.' one of them called out nervously. 'Does the priest speak the truth?'
'He does, Kurt Nieman. Throw 'em down, lads.' One by one, the soldiers dropped their weapons into the snow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The sky overhead was black, but filled with light. Ghostly green and blue luminosity rolled across the heavens, forming what looked like giant mountains and castles high in the stars. Sometimes, Hroth thought he could see shapes up there amongst the mountains, whirling and flying through the night. The colours swirled and re-formed, creating ever more awe-inspiring shapes and dramatic colours. The blues and greens changed to fiery yellows and reds, and it was then that Hroth felt at his strongest. The realm of the gods, Hroth thought. He felt privileged to gaze upon the worlds inhabited by the great ones, if that was truly what they were. He wondered if the blood citadel of Khorne was atop one of those mountains, the castle of skulls where the god sat upon his great bronze throne.
The chosen of Khorne had been travelling across the landscape for what felt like months as days and nights blurred into one another. He could never remember the sun rising or falling, but knew that it must have. Some moments, the burning sun blazed down upon him, burning his face and making his armour blisteringly hot. The red earth beneath his feet exuded heat, and all around him he saw shimmering heat waves. Creatures flickered in the corner of his eyes, but nothing was ever there when he turned to face them.
At other times, it was the dead of night, and the green moon of Chaos hung heavy in the sky, close and throbbing with power. Icy winds ripped through him, chilling him to the core. The land itself shifted and changed, although he could never pinpoint the moment when the change had come. One moment he would be walking over red rock, the next he would be climbing strangely hexagonal black rocks that continued up before him as far as he could see. Sometimes, he walked through thin crevices of water-slick rock that he could only just fit his shoulders through. Waterfalls of black water fell from thousands of feet above him, roaring down into bottomless pits.
Always, he was driven on. He had to reach the tower of skulls, he knew that, but he had only glimpsed the massive structure in the far-off distance. He struggled on through ash wastelands, across plains of salt, walking amongst the wind-blasted skeletons of ancient, gigantic beasts.
He could feel the power of the place working on his body and on his mind. It was like a pressure in the back of his head, a pressure that built the further he travelled. He knew that if he succumbed to it, his flesh would change, alter, and he would no longer be himself at all. Give yourself up to the change, a voice within him kept saying. Give yourself to Chaos fully.
The pressure in his head built, and he could feel the struggle within. He dropped to his knees, his hands to his head. His body was resisting the change, but he felt it within him, unstoppable. His muscles twitched uncontrollably, and he could feel his organs being stretched and squeezed. His bones were shifting, breaking and reforming in stranger configurations. His backbone fused into a single solid mass, and spines burst from his skin and armour, wracking him with pain. His joints cracked, and his muscles and tendons tore and strained to contain his contorting, altered form. Flames burst up the length of his horns. With a roar, he pushed himself to his feet, refusing to give in to the mutations. He was unchanged, the same as he had been for the countless minutes or months that he had been wandering.
He fought the minions of this shadow-realm. He tore the heart out of a creature that may once have been human, but had long since changed to somethingother. It flapped pathetically on the ground, its clawed flipper-like appendages thrashing madly as he stood over it, holding its still-beating heart. Loping bloodhounds of the ether scattered at his approach, and daemonic bats swooped down at him, feeding from his life-energy.
He battled another champion of the gods who wandered in these lands, a warrior in golden fluted armour with feathered limbs and a great scythe. The champion had summoned to him a host of cackling daemons of the Great Changer, cavorting creatures whose shapes flowed from one aspect to another, giggling insanely, and assailing him with flames of change that burst from their multi-jointed fingertips. Enraged, he smashed the daemons out of his way to get at the golden-armoured warrior, but each time he slew one of the capering daemons, two smaller creatures clawed out from its skin, groaning and spitting at him. He ploughed through these fell creatures, feeling their insubstantial claws scratching at his soul, and battled the champion. The heavens moved above them, the stars sweeping over them swiftly as they fought, but eventually Hroth cut down his foe and raised his skull to the heavens in honour of his god. As he stood there, the champion rotted away to nothingness, the skin shrivelling from his bones, the bones crumbling to dust.
Hroth could not remember when he had rested last, but knew that to sleep was to abandon himself to madness and destruction. When he closed his eyes, he could see the daemons of Khorne staring at him, assessing him. He saw the bloodletters, the foot soldiers of the Blood God.
They stood before him, powerful creatures whose flesh had been flayed from their bodies, exposing the muscle beneath, slick with blood. Their elongated heads had tall curving horns atop them, and their long coiling tongues tasted him. Their eyes reflected the flames that blazed in his own. They stood before him every time he even blinked, holding their massive hellblades. They seemed to be waiting for something, looking at him hungrily with their heads cocked to the sides. Whether they waited to feast on him, or to follow him, he knew not.
Suddenly Hroth stood at the base of the great tower of skulls: his goal. It was immense, reaching up into the skies that rolled with living flame and smoke. He walked around the base of the tower, counting over fifty paces around its circumference, and it rose hundreds of feet into the air. This was the tower that the great Asavar Kul had built for Khorne, and it contained the skull of every one killed by the great man.
Closing his eyes, he saw the bloodletters watching him curiously, madness and fury held in check, for now. Stepping to the massive tower, he placed his fingers into the eye sockets of a skull, and pulled himself upwards. Using the skulls as grips for his hands and feet, Hroth the Blooded began to climb the skull tower of Asavar Kul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wearily, the captain, the priest, the sergeant and the remaining soldiers rode towards the encamped army, bloody and tired. Stefan nodded to the Ostermark state soldiers they passed. They too looked as if they had been involved in battle. Word of the captains arrival spread quickly through the camp, and a young soldier came running up to him. 'Captain! You must come quickly.' 'What is it, man?'
'It's the reiksmarshal. He has been injured.'
'What? Is he all right?'
'I don't know, sir. I was sent to fetch you to him.' The captain kicked his steed into a gallop, and he thundered through the snow-covered encampment towards the command tent. Leaping from his horse and throwing the reins to an attendant, he entered the tent, his heart pounding.
The tent was dark, and the reiksmarshal lay on his pallet, his eyes closed and his skin drawn and pale. His chest was bandaged, Stefan saw, and blood was seeping from a wound beneath the wrappings.
At his side was a priestess of Shallya, a woman whose face was far older than her middling years. She was dabbing at his head with a damp cloth. She turned as Stefan entered, and curtseyed briefly before returning her attention to her patient.
'What happened?' Stefan muttered.
'It was an ambush,' said a deep voice from behind him. It was the captain of the Reiklandguard, Lederstein - a tall and humourless man. 'We were sweeping the banks of the Upper Talabec, driving back greenskin tribes, when we were attacked. It was before dawn yesterday, and the lowland was covered in a thick fog. Small, hunched beastmen attacked us out of nowhere. They were all around us, emerging from the marshland and the reeds that cover the banks of the river. We fought them off, but the reiksmarshal was struck down. Shot from the saddle, he was, by a fell handgun of the e
nemy.'
'No natural weapon, that,' piped up the priestess of Shallya. 'A thrice-cursed shot, it was.'
'You removed the shot, lady of mercy?' asked Stefan.
'Of course I removed it. Two inches to the left and it would have struck the heart.'
'Do you still have the shot?'
'I do.' said the priestess, pulling out a small, heavy tin, and handing it to the captain. 'Don't touch it.' she said as the captain opened it. 'It is an evil thing. I have placed blessings upon it, but it is powerful.'
Inside the tin, there was a cylindrical metal rod, around two inches long. Its tip was made from a roughly-cut green stone. The stone seemed to pulse slightly, and Stefan could feel the warmth coming off it. It made his skin crawl, and he quickly closed the lid and gave the tin back to the priestess.
'It was only one shot. He will survive it, yes?' asked Stefan, looking at the reiksmarshal in concern.
'Only one shot,' the lady scoffed. 'He should make it, but it'll be a close-run thing. That shot contains some evil poison, and it had a grip on the man's heart. It still does, but he should come through, Shallya wishing. Strong as a lion, this one. He will run this fever for at least two more days, and I doubt he will be conscious for any of that time. If he is, he will not be lucid.'
'Not lucid?'
'By that, I mean he won't be giving any orders for some time, captain, and he will not be fit to fight for weeks to come. I know that's what you are wondering. You soldiers are all the same,' she said, shaking her head. She dabbed at the reiksmarshal's head once more. 'I have to leave. Five men have been struck down with plague this morning, captain. I will do what I can for them, but you must be aware that it may spread. I will be back within the hour to check on him.'
Stefan sat down heavily with a sigh. He touched the pale hand of the reiksmarshal. It was cold and dank. 'The beastmen you fought,' he said, looking up at Lederstein, 'were they... rats?'
'Aye, they were,' replied the captain of the Reiklandguard. 'Hateful rat-spawn fiends of Chaos. How did you know? You have fought them before?'
'They attacked us last night,' Stefan said, nodding, 'and I know who sent them. Captain Lederstein, would your knights be willing to join me in killing the fiend who set this up?'
Stefan stalked from the tent where the reiksmarshal lay unconscious, and ordered Albrecht to start readying the troops. 'You're going for Gruber, aren't you lad?' said the massive priest of Sigmar. 'You're going to march east to find him.'
'What of it?' snapped von Kessel. 'The man's a threat to Ostermark and the Empire. He must be destroyed.'
'Aye, he must, but I told you before, you ain't going be able to kill him.'
'Right. So what do you propose to do? Let him be? Hope that he dies of old age? No, I'll take the fight to him, and Iwill destroy him.'
'Strong words, lad. The anger's got you. That's good; it will make you fight hard, but it won't do you no good against him. I've killed some big, powerful things with this hammer in my time. Real big,' he said, and Stefan believed him. 'But I couldn't kill him - not with this weapon. I know whatwill kill him, though: a blade, forged within magical flames on the fey isle of Ulthuan. It is long since lost, but I haveseen where it lies - Sigmar has granted me this vision. In darkness it resides, protected by the sleepless dead.' The light of faith was in the priest's eyes.
Within the hour, the camp was being dismantled, the entire army readying for war. Stefan raised a hand. In the distance, the massive warrior priest, riding uneasily, raised a hand back in salute. Thirty of the Reiklandguard knights rode at his side, as well as seventy-five other riders.
'Be swift.' Stefan whispered, watching Gunthar riding away from the army. 'I will pursue Gruber and make him face me. Within the week, I will face him across the field of battle, sword or no sword.'
Stefan lowered his hand as the warrior priest disappeared from sight.
Your time has come, Gruber, he swore. I will crush you utterly, and reclaim the honour of my family.
Grand Count Otto Gruber coughed uncontrollably. Hawking, he spat a foul mass of green phlegm to the ground. Something in it writhed, and he giggled girlishly, forgetting momentarily that he had company. Composing himself, he turned back towards his guest.
The Blind One was a gnarled, ancient creature bent almost double, leaning on a crooked staff. It wore befouled robes, and its limbs were wrapped in putrid, rotten-smelling bandages, in the manner of a leper; quite appropriate, thought Gruber. Leprosy was but one of the boons bestowed upon the Blind One. The creature's face was covered in blisters and boils, weeping down into its toothless maw. Its nose, or the half of it that remained, twitched spasmodically.
'Your skaven agents did their work, oh Blind One?' asked the count. 'The physician is no more?' The old skaven bobbed its head. 'And the reiksmarshal as well? My, my, this is a good day. Yes, a good day indeed.' The count rubbed his pudgy hands together.
'My plagues are spreading nicely. They're almost good enough to rival some of yours, I think, eh? Things go splendidly well.' gloated Gruber. 'What of our... mutual friend in the north? We must be ready to move when the call comes... Your servants are ready to strike, yes?'
Again, the Blind One bobbed its head.
'Good, good. We must both be ready. We have done all the preparations. All that remains is to cast the fatal blow. The Empire will be ours, and plague and pestilence shall reign.'
'Pestilenssssss,' hissed the skaven.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hroth climbed the tower of skulls for what seemed like an eternity. He did not glance down, but had he, he would have been unable to see the ground lost in fire and smoke far below him. Skulls were crushed under his grip, but he barely noticed, intent on climbing ever upwards.
Lightning struck the tower beside him, and splinters of bone and teeth cut his face. The skulls shifted, and he held on tightly so as not to fall. Skinless flying daemons, all muscle, tendon and claws, assailed him, tearing at his hands, prying his fingers from eye sockets. He swatted them away from him, and continued his ascent.
Finally, he climbed to the top of the tower, and pulled himself over the edge, breathing hard. His arms and legs ached from the climb, and he flexed his fingers. He stood atop a plateau. Hundreds of thousands of skulls stacked neatly in piles, reached high into the sky, as far as the eye could see. The sky was afire, angry red flames ripping across the heavens.
Asavar Kul sat before him on a throne of skulls, red eyes watching him with interest from beneath his fully enclosed helmet.
The sword, the Slayer of Kings, lay on his lap. Dark power coalesced within the massive weapon, writhing as if in torment. The daemon U'zhul, straining ever to escape its bindings, Hroth realised.
Asavar Kul was a massive man, exuding immense power. His glowing red eyes bored into Hroth, and he felt humbled. He dropped to his knees before this avatar of the gods, paying his respects to one of the greatest warlords that the world had ever seen, one of the Everchosen of Chaos.
'Rise, warrior.' the great warlord said, his voice strong and loud. Hroth raised himself to his full height. Still, if the warlord stood up from his skull throne, he would have towered over him.
'Why do you seek me out here, warrior?' boomed the Everchosen. 'Why do you interrupt me?'
'Everchosen,' said Hroth, licking his lips, and choosing his words carefully. 'I come seeking power.'
'Power! Bah! Of course you seek power, it is the way of Chaos: the way of the Norscan, the Hung and the Kurgan. It is the way it has always been, and ever will be, but what is it you truly seek?'
'I... to kill, to raise a skull tower to rival yours, and to honour great Khorne.'
Asavar Kul stood up from his throne, hefting the Slayer of Kings before him. A screaming daemonic face could be seen within the blade, eyes staring out malevolently. He rolled his shoulders, the massive metal plates of his armour sliding over each other smoothly. 'A tower to rival mine, eh? That would be impressive, impressive indeed.' He swung the blad
e in an arc around him, and Hroth took an inadvertent step backwards. Power crackled around the blade, lightning that arced up and down its surface and over the massive warrior's armoured arms. Hroth's axe was in his hands, although he did not remember drawing it. It felt heavy in his grip.
'There is fear in you, warrior. I can sense it in your heart.' said the massive warlord menacingly. 'What is it that you fear?'
'I fear nothing, warlord.' said Hroth, his voice sounding weak in his ears.
'You fear death itself.' stated Asavar Kul. 'Death is nothing. You think that death is an end to your service to the Dark Gods? You have much to learn.' he said, leaning his head from one side to the other. 'Your service to the gods continues long after death, warrior. For what is death to the gods themselves? It is nothing. You could die here atop this plateau of skulls, and the gods would not care.' He took a step towards Hroth. The chosen of Khorne raised his axe before him.
'You are nothing, little man.' the warlord continued. 'You are nothing to the gods, and you are nothing to me.'
'I seek to continue the war that you started, the war that ended with your defeat.' growled Hroth, his anger building.
'Do you hear nothing that I say? My death meant nothing. The gods did not mourn my passing. Always, there is another to start the slaughter afresh.'
'I seek your blade, great warlord. With it the tribes will rally behind me.'
'This?' said Asavar Kul, holding the blade up. 'It is but a sword, but if you want it, you will have to best me. Little man, you think you can take it from me?' 'I will, or I will die trying.' snarled Hroth. 'As you wish it.' intoned the warlord, and stepped forwards to cut the Khorne champion down, another skull for his mountainous tower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stefan rode across the open field, his steed stepping through the frost-covered grass. His breath steamed out before him, and he resisted the urge to blow warm air onto his frozen hands. The light was the strange cold glow of pre-dawn. Not that the sun would change much today, for the skies were bleak and filled with cloud - no sunlight would penetrate that thick blanket. Fog clung to the ground, wisping across the open field and collecting in the dips and hollows of the uneven earth.