The Black Rift of Klaxus - The Scarlet Lord

by Josh Reynolds

  She tilted her head, inhaling the thick smell of smoke and rotting vine. The fires were drawing ever closer, and soon they would sweep through the inner city. She grinned, pleased at the thought. Cities were tombs for the not-yet dead. Only the weak sought to encase themselves in stone and wood. The strong fought for their place, rather than making it. She would be pleased to leave Uryx when the time came. There were orruks in the deep jungles, or so the skaven claimed, and gargants had been sighted along the eastern rim of the crater, prowling the volcanic crags there. They would make good hunting, once the lightning-men were defeated.

  Her scouts had spotted the winged ones, flying through the rain, far out on the flanks of the advancing Stormcasts. They were coming this way, and in a hurry. Hurry meant distraction, and Phastet smiled. Distracted prey was easy prey.

  Orruks were easy to distract. You dangled bait and they rushed off, fighting one another in their haste to reach it. Then you slipped in behind them and cut their legs out from under them or broke their backs. It didn’t do to kill too many of them, for they only kept their flavour when cooked alive. And their skulls made for satisfying totems.

  But these Stormcasts were not gratifying prey at all. They vanished when they died, leaving nothing but the blood on your blade and your warriors broken at your feet. They were unnatural, and there was precious little pleasure to be had in killing them. But Khorne demanded their death regardless, and Phastet had never denied the Lord of Skulls his due.

  She had hunted his foes and slain them in his name. She had bent knee to Anhur for that same reason, the day he led his warriors through the Ashdwell. She had fought beside him at the Sun Gate, and seen the truth of him as he braved the Tollan Cannonade, riding a daemonic steed into the teeth of the foe’s artillery. A thousand warriors had died there, erased in an instant, but Anhur, alongside Skullripper and the Shieldbreaker, had survived to ravage the noble Tollan gunners in their silken finery.

  Khorne’s hand was on the Scarlet Lord, and any who couldn’t see that were fools, no better than unblooded youths. Those like Redjaw and Apademak barked and growled at any who dared overshadow them. Phastet had no quarrel with shadows. Shadows were useful things – they helped you to kill your prey and hide your trail, so that the enemy grew to fear you. You could flourish in shadow, and you could grow strong on the leavings of larger predators.

  She and her tribesmen would grow mighty in Anhur’s shadow. They had reaped a great toll since crossing the Felstone Plains and entering the crater-kingdoms. And they would reap mightier tolls still, when the Black Rift yawned wide at last.

  For now, however, she was content to aid Anhur in her own small way. She would blind the enemy so that he walked into the trap her fellow deathbringer, Baron Aceteryx, had set, unaware of the forces gathered beyond the Avenue of Ten Skulls in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. The Stormcasts were like orruks in that way – they saw only the enemy straight ahead, and took no note of those to the sides or behind, confident in their ability to bull through anything.

  Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark sky for a brief moment, revealing the winged shapes passing close overhead. She grinned and signalled to her warriors with a piercing whistle. Bloodreavers rose from the thickest sections of canopy, clutching chains and hooks. Her tribesmen had learned the art of bringing down flying prey in the deeps of the Ashdwell, hunting the great red-furred bats that lurked there in the dark. It was merely a matter of timing.

  The hooks were hurled upwards to snag arms or legs. They only needed to bring down one or two – the rest would follow. A winged Stormcast faltered as iron hooks snared him. Bloodreavers roared and heaved, leaping to pull as one on the chain. The Stormcast jerked from the air, crashing through the canopy before slamming into the street below. Two more followed him, before the rest turned on the hunters. Hammers of lightning hurtled downward, tearing through the canopy and smashing bloodreavers from their perches. But that had been expected. Death was the price of victory.

  Phastet leapt from her perch as the broken, smoke-wreathed bodies of her warriors fell to the ground around her. Their brothers and sisters burst from hiding, and charged towards the downed Stormcasts. The howling bloodreavers closed in on the dazed warriors, axes and swords raised. One of the golden-armoured warriors fell, his body hacked apart by the cannibalistic tribesmen. Phastet beheaded a second, her new axe screaming in delight as it separated the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders.

  She whirled, her gory axe raised. ‘Here I stand, fully alive,’ Phastet cried. ‘Here I stand, Khorne – ready to kill and die, in thy name. Send me foes, send me death, whatever be thy will – here I stand!’

  Kratus the Silent burst through the canopy of grey vines that obscured the street below, followed closely by his remaining Prosecutors. Two of the fallen were already dead, their bodies returned to the storm. But the third still lived, despite the chains that tangled him. The Knight-Azyros drew his starblade as he sped towards the fallen Stormcast. Bloodbound converged on the warrior as he struggled to free himself. More savages clambered through the canopy like spiders, blades clutched between their teeth.

  The ambush had been well planned, for all that it was a thing of brute simplicity. Had he and his warriors been mortal men, they would have died the minute they pierced the canopy. The bloodreavers raced through the street in untold numbers, and hurled themselves onto the Prosecutors from the wooden ledges of the nearby buildings and the canopy of vines, swarming over them. Chains snagged limbs, grounding several of the winged warriors. Ropes lassoed wrists and necks, dragging the Prosecutors off balance.

  Kratus alone avoided being snared and he dropped from the air with a sound like thunder. The stones of the street cracked and burst asunder at the sudden impact. So too did the bones of the closest bloodreavers as a blow from his wing sent them tumbling. He whirled and chopped through the chains holding a trapped warrior. Spears hurled from above crashed against his sigmarite war-plate, only to clatter away uselessly.

  The Prosecutor gasped out his thanks as Kratus hauled him to his feet. The Knight-Azyros gestured to the sky, and the recovered warrior hurled himself into the air without hesitation. Kratus turned and sliced open the throat of a charging bloodreaver. More raced towards him, leaping in to attack with wild yells and guttural prayers. He killed them all, painting the air with their blood.

  When the last of them had fallen, Kratus tore his celestial beacon from his belt and flipped its aperture wide, filling the street with a blazing radiance. Bloodreavers screamed and burned as the light swept over them. Flesh blackened and turned to ash. As Prosecutors shrugged themselves free of crumbling corpses, Kratus swept his bloody sword towards the sky in silent command. They could not afford to become bogged down. In the close confines of the street, they could not take advantage of their speed and manoeuvrability.

  Prosecutors sprang upwards, their wings stirring the ashes of their foes, as more bloodreavers closed in from all sides. Kratus raised his beacon, casting its light over the charging warriors, searing them from existence. Their momentum carried them past him, their bodies wreathed in all-consuming flame. He would burn the infestation from this place, and then join his Prosecutors. A sudden hiss from above caused him to turn.

  An axe skidded down the curve of his chest-plate, filling the air with sparks. His celestial beacon clattered from his grip as he fell backwards. Kratus rolled aside as his attacker dropped down, driving her axe into the stones where his head had been. The axe shrieked like a dying cat as it split the stones of the street.

  The deathbringer was lean-muscled and clad in leather and crude armour. Her flesh was painted with ash and soot, and her face was split by a monstrous grin that stretched from ear to ear. Barbaric tattoos covered the visible portions of her skin, and her hair was threaded through with bones. She wrenched the daemon-weapon loose, and slashed at him again. Kratus backed away, trying to get enough room to get airborne again. She grinned
at him, her face nearly splitting in two, and drew a smaller axe from her belt.

  ‘Pretty wings,’ she cooed. ‘Will they still crackle when I hang them from my lodge-pole, little bird?’ Kratus tensed, sword held low. She threw back her head and howled. Before the echo had faded, she was bounding towards him. He interposed his sword, and daemon-blade crashed against sigmarite with a keening shriek. Twisting the starblade, he hooked the deathbringer’s axes and tore them from her grip, even as his wing snapped out. She leapt back, thrown off-balance by the feint.

  Kratus slung the weapons aside and dove towards his assailant, starblade extended. She hurled herself out of the way, spitting curses. With a flap of his wings, Kratus was airborne. But not for long. Iron chains and hooks shot out from the ruins all around him, entangling him. He had bought the others time to escape, but it appeared he wasn’t going to be so lucky.

  ‘Trapped, pretty bird,’ the woman crowed. ‘Just like the others. We will tear you apart, one feather at a time, until all that is left is blood and bone, hey?’ She spread her arms. ‘But I know the way of it now. I won’t kill you, not all at once.’ Her razor grin stretched across her ash-smeared face. ‘Meat always tastes better carved from something that can still scream anyway.’

  At her shouted command, many hands hauled on the ropes and chains, trying to drag him down. Wings snarling, he fought to stay aloft. He caught sight of his beacon, still blazing like the light of Sigendil. He dropped to the ground. Stones crunched beneath his feet as he began to fight his way towards the light, dragging the cursing, struggling tribesmen behind him.

  A bloodreaver charged towards him and he flung his sword, smashing the barbarian from his feet. Then, he stretched his arms back and caught hold of the ropes and chains, gripping them tight. Before his captors could react, he flapped his wings and lunged forward, into the light of the beacon. Bloodbound screamed as he jerked them into the cleansing radiance. Ash filled the air.

  Freed, Kratus retrieved his sword and turned, just in time to parry a blow from the deathbringer. Her screaming axe crashed down again and again, until their weapons became locked. He tried to force her back, but she was stronger than she looked. As they strained against one another, she leaned towards him and opened her mouth, impossibly wide.

  Something thick and red lashed in her cavernous throat. It shot forward, and a circular maw of thin yellow fangs smashed against his mask. Acidic drool sizzled as it scorched his armour, and he jerked his head away before it could find his eye-slits. She wrenched his blade aside and they broke apart.

  With a scream, she lunged at him. He caught her by the throat as her tongue lashed at him. Gripping her throat, he swung her towards the light of his beacon, blocking her axe with his sword. She shrieked and squirmed to no avail as he plunged her into the celestial glow. The axe in her hand began to keen like a thing in pain.

  Heat washed over him as he held her struggling form in the light. She clawed at him, but gradually her struggles grew weaker, and finally ceased altogether. Kratus released her and stepped back. The blazing light enveloped her body, and soon there was nothing left of either the deathbringer or her axe, save blackened bones and greasy ash.

  Breathing heavily, Kratus retrieved his celestial beacon and sprang into the air.

  Horns blared and drums thumped as the forces of the Scarlet Lord started forward, up the Avenue of Ten Skulls, a stinking sulphurous mist swirling about their legs. Volundr marched among them, his anvil balanced on his shoulder, its chains looped about his arm and torso. The skullgrinder moved without haste. Warriors of the Bloodbound flowed around him like a red tide, driven by ferocity and fear in equal measure. They loved Khorne and feared him, as was the proper way of things.

  Behind them, in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, Hroth Shieldbreaker and Warpfang made ready to greet the Stormcasts. That they would break through the force advancing towards them was a foregone conclusion. But they would bloody themselves in the doing, and be ripe for the slaughter. Anhur waited, ready to lead his Scarlet Axes in delivering the deathblow, when the time was ripe. Volundr had no fear that the Scarlet Lord would grow impatient… Anhur was cannier than most, and not prone to haste.

  Not like that fool, Apademak. Volundr grunted in annoyance as he thought of the slaughterpriest. The Hungry One was impatient and greedy. He was a hollow thing, a fire that sought to expand beyond its hearth. If allowed to burn free, his madness would spread to others, like the egotistical Redjaw or the treacherous Baron Aceteryx, who needed little prodding to turn on his fellows. Thus far, Anhur had suffered no true challengers to his position – the Shieldbreaker had little ambition, save to indulge in war, and no other deathbringer was strong enough to challenge the Scarlet Lord. But Apademak… Apademak thought Anhur was weak, the way an axe sees weakness in a sword. Volundr shook his head.

  Luckily, Apademak was on the other side of the enemy, and too far away to interfere in things any further. Perhaps the Stormcasts had even done them a favour and killed the man-eater, though Volundr doubted it. Whatever his faults, Apademak was no weakling. Still, he would have to be dealt with, eventually. Nothing could be allowed to endanger what was to come, least of all one of their own warriors.

  The sky was filled with fire, smoke and rain. As he walked, Volundr watched the orange glow rise over the tops of the roofs. In its light, he saw something that might have been movement, and in his bones he felt the thunder of Khorne’s approach. The Blood God was drawing near to Uryx, hungry for the feast to come. Daemons screamed silently in the shadows and loped, barely visible, through the ranks of tribesmen. Volundr could feel their longing to join in the carnage to come. Soon enough, he thought. Soon and then forevermore.

  That was the price demanded, and the price Anhur had agreed to pay. Eight kingdoms given over to Khorne. The eight kingdoms of the Tephra Crater, sacrificed on the altar of war. Volundr laughed harshly, and those bloodreavers nearest him edged away. That was the price of glory, the price of war unending. Anhur had given himself, his warriors, his folk and his kingdom over into Khorne’s keeping. He had given his past and his future into Khorne’s hands, and would be rewarded accordingly, with an eternity of slaughter beneath the stars.

  Anhur would make a fine weapon for Khorne to wield in the eternal wars of the gods. Like Valkia before him, or the Bloodwrath, the Scarlet Lord would serve as a piece in the Great Game, in service to the Lord of Skulls forevermore. Volundr had known that the first moment he laid eyes on the princeling of Klaxus, as he had fought his way south, away from the crater-kingdoms. Anhur had been without purpose then, bereft of his kingdom, and his allies. Alone save for his most loyal retainers, and his boundless rage.

  Volundr had sensed that rage, and tracked its bitter scent across the Felstone Plains and the grasslands of the Caldera. He had come upon Anhur in battle against the horseclans there, and given him aid. He had guided him through fire and massacre, showing him the way to victory. In Anhur was a monstrous cunning, only barely chained by tattered nobility. And now, at long last, the last shred of that woebegone prince was fading, leaving only the savage purity of the Scarlet Lord.

  He would guide Anhur up the eighty-eight steps, and see any danger to his apotheosis crushed. He had invested too much effort into crafting this weapon to allow jealousy or old foes to tear down all that he had built. Anhur would enter the fires of the Soulmaw and transcend the Mortal Realms, as had so many others under Volundr’s tutelage. But the Scarlet Lord would be his greatest creation.

  And what then, war-smith? What next for Volundr of Hesphut, what next for the Skull-Cracker, he thought. Another weapon, he suspected. Khorne always needed weapons, and the skullgrinders were his weaponsmiths. He stroked the runes embossed on the brass plating of his anvil, aware of the raging heat contained within its blunt shape – the heat of Khorne’s own forges. The heat of weapons yet to be shaped, of furies without purpose.

  There were some among Anhur’s Gorechose
n who might yet ascend to those heights. The Shieldbreaker was exalted among the deathbringers of the warhorde. In him were all the virtues of the Bloodbound, and few of their vices. The Huntress too had potential, should she survive. Berkut was too lost to the song of slaughter, and Apademak to his own lusts. Redjaw was a fool, but lethal. Baron Aceteryx matched them all for guile, if not strength. So many possibilities, for a true craftsman.

  He looked down at his hands and felt again the heat of the blazing chains he had reeled from the smoky air to loop about the anvil he carried. Each link was a soul torn weeping from the Screaming Sea of Khorne’s realm. He stretched the links tight between his fists, thinking of all that was yet to come. He looked up, scanning the faces of the nearby Bloodbound; each one was an ingot of malice, ready to be hammered and tempered into something greater.

  Some would not survive. Some materials were fit only to heat the furnace. But others… So many possibilities, he thought. So many weapons, waiting for the touch of the hammer and the kiss of the fire. It was his duty, his honour, to wield that hammer and stoke that fire.

  Volundr felt the air turn hot. He glanced to the side, and saw eight hulking shapes stalking through the ranks of the Bloodbound towards him, their chains clattering, a crimson haze rising from their twisted red limbs. Monstrous and swollen with bitter strength, a hellish ichor sweating from their pores, the wrathmongers approached him reverentially. Bloodbound and beastkin alike scrambled from their path, desperate to avoid the attentions of the blessed of Khorne. The wrathmongers were battle-madness made flesh, and to tarry too close to them was to drown in that madness.

  ‘We… come,’ one grunted, in a voice like the thudding of iron on bone. He was a bulky thing, scarred and smeared with dried blood and worse substances. His helm was a single chunk of brass, marked in its centre by the rune of Khorne, and topped by a crest made from a skull and dangling spinal column. ‘Come to… to fight at your side, war-smith. Come to… come to fight!’ The wrathmonger twitched and staggered back, his wrath-flails rattling as he threw back his helmeted head and screamed. His companions screamed with him, and their voices momentarily silenced the clamour of the horde.