Mark of Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  Albrecht rode a pace behind him, as did Lederstein, the captain of the Reiklandguard. Behind them rode twenty of his resplendent knights, imposing big men riding on their massive warhorses. One of the knights held the standard of his order high in the air, and another carried Stefan's own banner, flying the colours of Ostermark.

  The captain's eyes were hard and cold, staring straight ahead of him as he approached the cluster of men across the field. A massive banner flew there too, also displaying the colours of Ostermark. However, that banner bore the heraldic markings of the grand count, the leader of all the forces of Ostermark. Stefan felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of it.

  'Easy, you stupid creature.' hissed Albrecht as his horse pulled at the reins.

  For almost two weeks, Stefan had marched across the Empire, chasing Gruber's army almost to the foothills of the World's Edge Mountains. He had heard nothing of Gunthar and his mission to uncover the only weapon said to be able to kill the count. Although he hoped that the warrior priest fared well, Stefan cared not for the weapon - all he wanted to do, all that dominated his waking and resting thoughts, was to face the count on the field of battle. Today, his wishes would come to fruition.

  A shout barked out, and the troop of some fifty greatswords wearing the purple and yellow of Ostermark stood sharply to attention, raising their massive weapons to their shoulders. Before them, the aides and advisors of the grand count clustered around an enclosed palanquin held on the shoulders of six men. As Stefan and his men approached, the palanquin was lowered smoothly to the ground. Its occupant could not be seen, hidden behind a gauze screen, but Stefan had no doubt that the pretender Gruber sat within.

  Von Kessel raised his hand and the knights with him halted, their steeds snorting and stamping their hooves. He nodded to Albrecht and Lederstein, and dismounted to approach the palanquin. He flashed a glance over the advisors, seeing the coldness in their eyes. The copper-skinned Tilean advisor Andros regarded him with disdain, a smug smile curling the corners of his mouth. Johann, Gruber's nephew and heir, did not even attempt to hide his hatred, staring at him murderously.

  A pair of men raised long horns to their mouths and blew a long blast into the cold air. 'The merciful Grand Count Otto Gruber, Prince of Bechafen, Chancellor and true chosen claimant of the title Elector of Ostermark!' boomed one of the men that had been carrying the palanquin. Stefan's face curled in disgust.

  A mechanical apparatus on the top of the palanquin whirred into action, clicking and turning as dials and cogs began to move. A small clockwork doorway opened and a miniature, mechanical drumming bear marched out, its head tipping from side to side as it struck its bronze drum. A pair of mechanised skeletons, each bearing a sand timer, walked jerkily to the front of the palanquin. One turned left and the other turned right, and they began to march across the top of the enclosed box. As they did so, the curtain hiding Gruber from view was jerked back, exposing the man reclining on a bed of pillows, stroking a dead toad. When the curtain was pulled completely back, the miniature skeletons marched back to their alcoves, and the drumming bear retreated back through its doorway. With a click, the doors slammed shut, and the whirring of gears and cogs ceased.

  'Marvellous, isn't it!' exclaimed the grand count, clapping his pudgy hands together. 'Simply wonderful!' The fat man shuffled his weight. 'Welcome, Captain Stefan von Kessel. I hear that you have been performing well. I am most pleased. You do Ostermark honour with your actions, young man. Come forward, I want to see you.'

  Stefan's jaw twitched and he clenched his hands at his sides, repressing the urge to leap forwards and kill the fiend where he sat. 'I would be much better, Gruber, if I had not learnt that something is rotten in the heart of Ostermark.' he managed, his anger barely contained and his voice strained.

  'You will address the grand count with the proper respect, whoreson.' snarled the black-clad Johann. Gruber waved him into silence.

  'Rotten, is it? You talk of the plague? Terrible thing it is, yes. Terrible.' said the grand count, a slight smile on his face, and his eyes flashing with dark humour.

  'I talk of something worse than plague,Gruber,' snarled Stefan, casting Johann a venomous glare. 'I talk of the worship of the Dark Gods, and of the deception of the Ostermark itself:the enemy within.'

  'You speak of your grandfather still, I see. You are fixated on it, boy. You must forget his treachery if ever you are to move forwards.'

  'I do not speak of my grandfather, honest and just man that he was.'

  'Honest and just, was he? He was a treacherous, Chaos-worshipping cur!' the count spat, spittle flying from his mouth.

  Stefan saw that Gruber was looking far worse than the last time he had seen the man. His face was slick with sweat, and his hair had begun to fall out in great clumps, leaving bare patches on his head that were covered in flaking scabs. Both his eyes wept yellow liquid down his cheeks, and an attendant dabbed at them with a wet cloth every few moments. His mouth was surrounded in seeping sores, and his fleshy pink tongue licked at them unconsciously. The overpowering wafts of incense and scented oils could not disguise the rank stink of decay that hung over him.

  'He betrayed Ostermark, he betrayed me, and he betrayed you, his cursed kin! It is thanks to him that you were branded with that hideous mark as a child, von Kessel, branded with that mark of Chaos to reflect his shame!' The count slumped back into his pillows. Stefan stood statue-still, his face reddening, but the count had not yet finished. 'You owe me your life, von Kessel! The witch hunters wanted you to burn in the flames with your grandfather and that bitch mother of yours. It was I who argued to spare you! And how do you thank me? By turning up before me with an army - myown army - arrayed against me as if for war. Grovel.' the enraged count screamed, growing increasingly red in the face, 'grovel before me, you whoreson! Grovel, or I will see you hang for your treacherous actions!'

  'I owe you nothing, Gruber. Grovel before you? I think not. I would sooner die than do such a thing, you treacherous pretender.'

  'I think that I can arrange such a thing.' hissed the count. 'You, man.' he said, throwing a pudgy finger towards the Reiklandguard captain. 'Take him. Do your Emperor his duty, and take him from my sight! I will see him hanged before the morning is out!' The knight made no move, his humourless face impassive. 'What are you waiting for? You are a loyal servant of the Empire, are you not? I am an elector count, knight. Iorder you to take him!'

  'I cannot do that, my lord.' the knight said.

  'You cannot... I will see you hang as well. Do it!' The knight stood still, his face betraying no emotion.

  'So, I see you have spread your lies, von Kessel. I spared your life, you ungrateful wretch.' hissed the count.

  For all his years this had made the guilt within Stefan surface, for he knew that it was true. Not now - now he was filled with a burning rage. This man had not saved him - he had condemned him to a painful upbringing of shame. He owed this man nothing.

  'Will you accept your crimes and face trial?' asked Stefan, his voice icy.

  'Face trial?' The count laughed, and then coughed, and hacked up a ball of phlegm, spitting it into a bronze spittoon. 'I have no need to. No one would accept the word of one shamed captain whose grandfather was burnt as a witch. I am an elector of the Empire!' He laughed at the ludicrousness of the suggestion.

  'My grandfather was an elector. They believedyou.'

  'Yes they did my boy, but I was the elector's most trusted advisor, and a close personal friend of his. Everyone in his court collaborated with me, turning upon him. I, as his mostfaithful of friends, was much aggrieved by his heresies. It was withmuch regret and despair that I brought his crimes to the attentions of the witch hunters. I brought in a witch hunter myself, a close personal associate, who did his duty with efficiency and fervour. I was so upset by it all.' Gruber said with unconcealed mock sincerity. 'I brought that witch hunter here today, to witness just how faryou have fallen, von Kessel.' he said, motioning to a figure amongst his cour
tiers. A tall, flamboyantly dressed man nodded sagely to the count, and stepped forwards, bowing extravagantly.

  'It is with great displeasure that I can see clearly that the soul of this man is tainted with the filth of Chaos. The count stayed my hand when you were a child, von Kessel. It seems that his goodwill and mercy have been thrown back in his face. You will face public prosecution and witch trials, which will result in your death, I am afraid.' He motioned imperiously, and two brutish men stepped towards the captain.

  'You could have had it all, von Kessel.' declared the count. 'I wanted you at my side, that is why I spared your life. You could have been my heir and successor. You are as foolish as your grandfather was before you. I offered him a place alongside my... friends. I offered him it all, all the secrets that I had learnt in overcoming my illnesses, but he refused them. I give you one last chance - will you stand at my side? Or will you choose death?'

  Albrecht drew his sword, pointing it at the throat of one of the men approaching his captain. The knight of the Reiklandguard too drew his blade, a massive weapon, and held it in his hands before him. 'I will see you dead, Gruber. I will kill you and all your treacherous lackeys.' snarled Stefan, casting his gaze over the gathered courtiers. The witch hunter strode forwards.

  'Your actions condemn you, von Kessel.' he snapped. Stefan drew one of his pistols and levelled it at the witch hunter.

  'No,' he said, 'you condemn yourself.' and he shot the man in the face.

  'That went well,' said Albrecht as they rode back to their army. Stefan's face was grim.

  'Bring the army over the hill, sergeant. We end this today.'

  Hroth brought his axe up as the daemon blade of Asavar Kul descended towards him. He blocked the blow, and lightning witch-fire exploded outwards from Kul's sword, dancing over the Khorne champion's weapon and up his arms. He staggered back under the force of the blow, his fingers and arms numb.

  'You are nothing to me, little man.' said the massive warlord again, and swung at him once more. Hroth leaped backwards to avoid the blow. The blade flashed towards him again, and he rolled to the side to avoid it. It smashed into the skulls they stood upon, shattering them and sending shards of bone flying into the air.

  'You think you are worthy to wield this hallowed blade?' boomed the warlord. 'You are nothing. Worthless. A pitiful, little man. You are a dog. A whelp. Nothing more.'

  Something deep within Hroth broke at that point. Red fury welled up through him, filling him with anger and hatred. It fuelled his weary limbs, filling him with strength and power. The horns on his head burst into flames, and his eyes blazed with rage. With a bestial roar, he threw himself at the warlord, hefting his axe at his foe with all the daemonic strength coursing through him.

  Kul met the blow head-on, parrying it and sending a brutal riposte that would have taken Hroth's head from his shoulders. The champion of Khorne ducked underneath it and rammed his axe up into the belly of the warlord, shattering armour plates and driving into the flesh beneath.

  Grunting with pain, Asavar Kul smashed the hilt of his sword into Hroth's head, and kicked him away. Blood trickled from the wound down across the Khorne warrior's brow. It touched the flames on his right eye and they flared brightly. The rage was still building within him, and his muscles strained and bulged as his breathing became heavier. Growling like a beast, he launched himself at the bigger warrior, hacking and cutting.

  Asavar Kul backed away from the fury of the assault, his blade flashing out left and right, deflecting all the attacks driving towards him. The daemon blade arced out, scoring a wound on the Khorne berserker's arm. The daemon within the sword writhed and contorted in ecstasy, and the wound hissed and smoked. Hroth barely noticed, and uncaring, threw himself into the attack once more, forsaking any pretence of defence. His axe was a blur as it whirled around him, and he rained countless blows down upon the warlord who struggled to match the intensity of the attack.

  Hroth suffered a deep wound across his thigh, and another across his chest, but he managed to smash his axe into Kul's shoulder, ripping the armour from his flesh. Hroth's rage and power continued to build, and he could feel Khorne within him, urging him on and gifting him with furious strength. His vision was red and his mind went completely blank, utterly focused on his rage.

  With a deft twist of his wrist, Asavar Kul sent Hroth's axe flying from his grasp, and it spun end over end off the side of the plateau of skulls, disappearing into flame and smoke. Without missing a beat, the champion of Khorne threw himself at the warlord, his hands reaching for the man's throat. Kul rammed the daemon blade into his chest, impaling him. Hroth, uncaring, pushed on, and the blade was driven through him, punching from his back in a spray of blood.

  The champion of Khorne had his hands around the gorget protecting Kul's throat, and the metal strained and buckled under his strength. Asavar Kul slipped, dislodging a landslide of skulls. With a final push, Hroth hefted the man off his feet, and the two of them toppled off the edge.

  They continued to battle as they fell, Kul twisting his daemon blade that was impaling the Khorne champion, and Hroth continuing to crush the warlord's throat. Growling like a wounded animal, Hroth drove his forehead into Kul's helmet, again and again. Blood began to pour down Hroth's face, but he did not care, already seeing only red. The metal helmet began to buckle and crumple. Tumbling over and over, they battled each other as they fell into flames.

  The metal helmet of Asavar Kul was bent out of shape, and Hroth wrenched it from the warlord's head. The face beneath was bloodied and contorted in anger and pain, and he drove the palm of his hand into the warlord's nose, sending shards of bone driving up into his brain. Still the warlord fought on, even as they crashed into the skulls and bones piled at the base of the tower, hundreds of feet below.

  Hroth was on top of the warlord, his knee driven deep into Asavar Kul's chest. The warlord's blade still spitted him, but Kul had let go his grasp upon the deadly weapon. The blade disappeared suddenly, and Hroth found himself kneeling over the body of Kul, his axe somehow grasped in his right hand - in his left he held the daemon blade, U'zhul.

  Looking up, his vision still red, Hroth saw that Asavar Kul stood before him, arms folded over his massive chest. Looking down, confused, he saw the bloodied figure of the warlord pinned beneath him.

  'You do well, warrior of Chaos,' the standing Asavar Kul said.

  Then Hroth drove the blade U'zhul straight through the body of the fallen Kul with a rage-filled roar, piercing his heart. The life force and power of the great man flowed up through the blade and into Hroth, and he roared in victory. Energy coursed through him, filling his veins with power: power the likes of which he had never felt before.

  Hroth the mortal was no more. Hroth the Blooded, Daemon Prince of Khorne, was born.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Albrecht stared grimly across the open field. The sun had still not pierced the thick clouds overhead, and the grass was still covered in frost. In the distance, he could see Gruber's army, resplendently arrayed against them. Men of Ostermark fighting men of Ostermark while enemies awaited to descend upon the Empire, he thought. This was a bad day.

  'Is there no way that we can avoid this battle?' he asked the captain, although he already knew the answer.

  'Do you mean before the count threatened to hang me and I blew the head off that witch hunter? Probably. Now? Not a chance.'

  'No, I know that. The men fighting for Gruber - they ain't bad men, captain. They are just doing their duty.'

  'As are we,' said Stefan, his face darkening.

  'One step removed and we would have been fighting on that side over there, as could any of the men fighting for you. What good will come of brother killing brother?'

  'What good will come of it? Gruber must die, Albrecht. You know that!'

  'Of course I know it, but surely there is some other way, a way that won't see men of the Empire butchered, regardless of the outcome.'

  'If a few men have to die
for Ostermark to be free, that's a price that must be paid, Albrecht. This conversation is over.' The captain stalked away from the sergeant at that point, shouting to his men, readying them for the battle to come.

  Still, the words of his sergeant stuck with him, and Stefan knew that he had spoken the truth. This was a bitter day for Ostermark, and if there were some way for him to avoid the battle while still taking Gruber's head, then all the better. He had walked amongst the men for the past few hours, talking to his soldiers, showing them that he was one of them, and not some leader that would shirk battle once it was closed. Not that they needed this reassurance, for every man had seen him in battle before, leading from the front.

  Why then was he so uneasy, he wondered? The answer was an easy one - because this was a battle that none would celebrate, win or lose. To gain victory, he was asking his men to kill their own kinsmen, people from the same villages and towns where they grew up. He saw the leader of the flagellants, the nameless ex-knight, seated alone on a log. He was motionless, as if his crazed fervour had finally seeped out of him. His lack of movement seemed at odds amongst the army that was bustling to be ready for battle.

  'Greetings, warrior.' said the captain. The man who had once been a knight of the Reiklandguard looked up at him, his eyes glazed. The twin-tailed comet cut into his forehead was scabbed over. It had evidently been some time since he had last carved it into his head. 'You and your companions will not fight this day?'

  'Fight? Today? No, we will not fight. Not yet. Not just yet.' He stared at the captain, madness clear in his eyes. 'Sigmar is not shining within me this day. He has abandoned me, and thrown me into the darkness. It is a sign. Through pain, I will cleanse my body. As day turns to night, I will cleanse myself. Through pain, I will regain his light, and then... I will be no more.'