The Black Rift of Klaxus: The Gnawing Gate

by Josh Reynolds

  Orius leapt down into the dark. His feet struck something softer than stone, but harder than flesh. Bone, he knew. The bones of a thousand men, enemies of Klaxus, melded together in an unholy union and raised up to serve those they had sought to destroy. Such had been the way of the priest-kings. Such might have been his fate, had Sigmar not plucked him from death.

  The air inside the gate was hot and humid, worse than the jungle. It choked him, squeezing the air out of his lungs, and he knew he would have to be quick. A deep sound echoed around him, a steady thump as of a hammer striking sand. Holding his glowing hammer aloft, he followed the sound. As he moved, the walls creaked and half-seen faces formed in their substance, whispering to him piteously. He could not hear the screams of the gate here, only the soft weeping of things which had once been men.

  The darkness began to fade, giving way to a soft red glow, which flickered in time to the sound. Orius stepped out onto a platform made from the fused ribcages and spinal columns of the dead. The walls around him rose pink and fleshy. Vast capillaries and squirming veins stretched everywhere, across flesh, bone and stone alike.

  At the centre of this chamber of horrors, suspended amidst a web of thin ligament, stretched muscle and rusty chain, hung the heart of the Gnawing Gate. It was a bulbous mass of meat, easily the size of three men, which pulsed and swelled. Each time it did so, the chamber shuddered, and the red light which burned within it grew blinding. He could see thin streaks of rot along the surface of the heart. The magic that had created the Gnawing Gate was now, with the fall of the priest-kings, consuming it. It was dying, but its death would be a long time coming – years, even. Years of agony, driving it to berserk heights. If it were not stopped now, Orius thought, it would uproot itself, and slither across the crater, destroying all in its path, until at last it expired.

  Orius stepped towards it. Condensation formed on and ran down his war-plate as he drew close. A perfectly formed mouth sprouted from the raw mass. ‘He-elp,’ it gurgled. Another mouth joined it, rising from the folded slabs of flesh at the top. ‘I-it hu-urts,’ it whimpered. ‘Hu-rthurturts,’ a third mouth moaned, as it pushed its way into the light.

  More voices – or one voice, rising from a thousand mouths – joined them, as things that might have been faces rose like blisters along the fleshy walls. A thousand souls, chained together in stone and agony, for countless centuries. He shook as the reverberations of their cries thundered through him, scratching at his mind and soul.

  ‘Be at peace,’ he whispered, and all at once, the voices were silent. A hush fell over the chamber, and the heart trembled in its web, as if in anticipation. A thousand souls watched him with tormented eyes. Orius Adamantine lifted his hammer, and, with a murmured prayer, shattered their chains.

  Thunder rumbled across the city, and the flash of lightning stung Anhur’s eyes as he watched from the high terrace. Fire limned the horizon. Soon, Uryx would be ashes, unless the storm extinguished it. Down below, on the steps of the citadel, his warriors made ready for what was to come. The Scarlet Axes were the hardened veterans of a thousand wars. They had stood beside him since he had fought his way past the basalt gates of Ytalan, the armies of Klaxus on his heels. He watched them as they oversaw the transport of the newest batch of prisoners culled from the ruins of Uryx by the skaven.

  Some would go to the slave-pits, others to the stew-pots. And some – a lucky few – would become a part of something greater. He glanced back, into the inner chamber, where Pazak was hard at work, shaping his sorceries. Soon, he thought.

  He had loosed Apademak and the others to wage war as they willed. They would fight and they would fail, and then fall back, to the Bridge of Smoke, drawing his enemies to him. His Gorechosen would burn – indeed, the deathbringer, Vasa, was likely already dead – but they would laugh while they did so. And the foe would be bloodied and staggering, ready for Anhur’s axe. Come, Hound of Ytalan. Come to me, so that all debts might be settled before the end, he thought.

  Anhur looked up at the stained statue that rose beside him. It depicted one of the priest-kings of Klaxus, Aunis the Cunning. He studied its face, and wondered at the likeness. ‘It’s been a long time, grandfather,’ he said, finally. ‘I never should have left you... though you didn’t give me much choice.’ He laughed. ‘I guess I am deathproof, despite what you believed.’ The statue seemed to frown in disapproval. Suddenly angry, Anhur’s hand fell to his sword.

  No, not mine. The thought came swift and unbidden. He pulled his hand away from the sword and let it fall by his side. No, it wasn’t his sword. It was the blade of Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and heir to the throne of Klaxus. But Prince Anhur was dead. And he had a new weapon now. He looked down at the axe, dangling loosely in his grip. He brought it up, and gazed into the polished obsidian of its blade. Something vague and unformed looked back at him.

  The anger rose up, burning white-hot, and he swept the axe out and smashed the head from the statue. He whirled, axe raised, and confronted the other statues which lined the terrace. Stony eyes regarded him, and his anger swelled.

  ‘You took warriors and made them weak. You took heroes and made them servants,’ he said. ‘I would watch you all die a thousand deaths for that crime, if I could.’ His words bounced from pillar to plinth, echoing across the terrace. ‘But I will settle for unmaking all that you built. I will erase Uryx and Klaxus both from history, and shape something new from the ashes.’ He looked around. ‘Do you hear, grandfathers? You wrought this citadel from the stuff of the jungle, and built a new kingdom on the bones of the old. And I, your truest son, will do the same. I will be the last king of Klaxus, and the first.’

  Anhur spread his arms. ‘See me, in whatever netherworld you occupy. See me, and despair. I will rule our people, and lead them as you never could. Only I remember your names now, and soon, even I will forget.’ He lowered his arms. ‘Soon...’

  ‘May Khorne will it so, O Scarlet Lord.’

  Anhur turned. ‘I was wondering where you’d gotten to, war-smith.’ Volundr went where he willed, and none dared gainsay him. The skullgrinders were the crafters of blades, the armourers of the Bloodbound. None knew where they came from, only that they appeared alone, striding out of the wilderness, to lay claim to certain sacrificial altars. They were the keepers of the anvils of Khorne, and where they walked, Khorne’s gaze soon followed.

  ‘Your mind is aflame,’ Volundr said. The hulking skullgrinder moved quietly for all his size. Anhur had not heard his approach. ‘I can smell the stink of its burning from here.’

  ‘Does it offend you, war-smith?’ Anhur asked.

  ‘I do not take offense. I take skulls,’ Volundr said. He smelled of hot metal and cinders. ‘You are... uncertain.’ It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t a threat either. Anhur turned.

  ‘I am,’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘Why?’

  Again, there was no threat. No menace. Anhur’s grip on his axe tightened. ‘A lingering trace of the man I was,’ he said. ‘A mote of weakness, which threatens the integrity of the blade.’

  ‘Honour is no weakness, Anhur. No matter what creatures like Apademak might contend,’ the skullgrinder said. ‘They think of nothing save the spilling of blood, and the taking of skulls...’

  ‘And is there more, then?’ Anhur said. ‘For I have waded through seas of blood and climbed mountains of skulls, only to find myself here again, at my start.’ He raised his axe, so that the witch-fires were reflected in the polished obsidian of the blade. ‘I chipped this axe myself, from the still, cold heart of a great fire-wyrm. It yearns to destroy, even as I do. It grows irritable, in the absence of slaughter... as do I. I am the axe, and the axe is me. Is there more, war-smith?’

  Volundr stared at him for a moment. Then, he chuckled. It was a harsh sound, like the stroke of a sword. ‘War is the anvil on which our souls are shaped, Anhur,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. One massive hand sett
led on Anhur’s shoulder-guard. ‘And it is Khorne who wields the hammer. By his will are we purged of weakness and made strong.’

  ‘Strong,’ Anhur said. He looked at Volundr. ‘I will – I must purge Klaxus of weakness, war-smith. I will break my people on Khorne’s anvil, and make of them – of myself – something better. Something stronger. I will make us weapons, in his name.’ He lifted his axe and examined the blade. ‘Or, failing that, I will end them utterly. I will burn Klaxus, so that something greater might be born from the ashes.’

  ‘Aye, my friend,’ Volundr said. ‘And that is why I am here. That is why I joined you, all those months ago. For all your talents, Prince of Ytalan... you are no weaponsmith.’

  Anhur laughed. ‘And glad I am of it, my friend.’

  Volundr nodded. ‘As you should be.’ He held up his anvil, on its thick chain. ‘War is the forge, Anhur, and this moment is both hammer and anvil. What happens next depends on the quality of the metal.’

  Anhur clasped the skullgrinder’s forearm. ‘As you say, wise one. Come, let us see how the fire rises, then.’ He turned and led Volundr back into the chamber. ‘Pazak,’ he called out. ‘The time draws near. I have loosed my hounds upon the city. They will crash against the enemy in futile slaughter, spilling rivers of blood. How long?’

  ‘Futile slaughter – such a cunning stratagem,’ Pazak said, turning to look at them.

  ‘Your mockery is noted and forgiven,’ Anhur said, amused. ‘For the moment, at any rate. And the stratagem is the only one Apademak and the others understand. If I had not set them loose, they would have revolted. Of them all, only you and Volundr understand my true purpose.’ He gestured to the skullgrinder. ‘Only you understand that we fight not simply to hold what we have conquered. I ask again, how long?’

  ‘A few hours more, my lord,’ Pazak said. ‘A few hundred more souls, fed into the Black Rift, and it shall begin to open. As you can see, they grow stronger...’ He gestured to the bloody floor and the things that writhed there.

  Anhur sank to one knee and caressed the head of one of the mewling daemons attempting to free itself from the blood. ‘Soon, my brother, soon...’ he murmured, as he stroked the bloodletter’s flat skull. ‘Soon, you shall rise and slay, as you were created to do. Soon, we shall wade together through an ocean of gore... still yourselves, sons and daughters of Khorne, be still and dream of the beautiful horror which awaits us all.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Stir this effluvium, sorcerer. I would speak to our ally.’

  Pazak made a face, but complied. He began to chant, softly. The blood-cloud pulsed and thinned, as more rose from the floor or dripped sideways from the walls to join it. Bones burst from the red mire to pierce the cloud and join the effluvia. Severed hands scuttled across the floor like pale spiders, and headless torsos lurched after them. All were pulled upwards into the cloud and soon it was a swirling vortex of reds and browns and butchered flesh. Raw skulls surfaced to chatter mindlessly before being enveloped once more.

  Anhur gazed up at the boiling, shifting blotch of blood and spoke a single word. It was a name; a name he had flayed one letter at a time from the backs of the Pain-Scribes of Anguz, and etched whole upon the still-beating heart of their abbot. The sound of it seared the very air. The blood-cloud began to roil and stretch in a grotesque display. More and more of it dripped upwards from the floor, joining the swirling mass. The skulls surfaced once more, and began to chant in time, limned in crackling flames.

  The floor shook beneath him, as if something vast were approaching. Anhur held his ground. It was not the thing itself, but merely a dreadful echo, resounding through the Mortal Realms. He had spoken the true name of one of Khorne’s huntsmen, casting it into the void. And now, the daemon known as Skul’rath the Broken had come at his call.

  A shadow, gigantic and foul, outlined in black flame, appeared in the surface of the blood like a shadow on a curtain. Anhur recognized it at once. Large teeth, capped in brass, and anchored in a large doglike muzzle, pierced the veil of blood. Nostrils flared, and the hideous mouth opened. ‘I hear you, mortal. Skul’rath hears, and he comes,’ the Bloodthirster rumbled. ‘Speak, mortal. Speak, Skul’rath commands you...’

  ‘No man or daemon commands me, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur said. ‘We are allies in this endeavour. I am no daemon-slave, to be twisted and broken at your whim.’ It was a risk, talking to the creature in such a fashion. Had it been any other of Khorne’s chosen –Ka’Bandha, or Khorg’tan – he might have balked. But Skul’rath was different.

  The daemon had been humbled by the Stormcast Eternals. Skul’rath had been the first to fall in the war, the first casualty, the first defeat. And he was eager to redeem himself.

  ‘Where is the gate I was promised, mortal? Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions await the opening of the way, and they – WE – grow impatient.’

  ‘The way will soon be revealed, Broken One,’ Anhur said, staring up at the daemonic face. The chamber shook as a sudden monstrous roar burst from the squirming blood. The things – the half-born daemon-shapes – thrashed and shrieked in sympathy.

  ‘Do not call me that,’ the daemon bellowed. Sizzling dollops of blood spattered against Anhur’s helm. ‘I am not broken. I am the breaker.’

  ‘Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’ Anhur said. The air grew hot and stifling as the daemon roared again. It seared his lungs and sweat stung his eyes, but he did not falter. As the heat rose, so too did his anger. It reached up, through the meat of him, trying to throttle his lucidity. His pulse throbbed in time to the daemon’s roars, as if the very sound of it were twisting what was left of his soul into new, more horrible shapes.

  Strange images were burnt into the air, fading as quickly as they formed. A hunched and crippled form, dragging itself across endless skullfields. The Gates of the Vanquished, rising up over the moats of boiling blood. The wails of those bested in battle, and the Gatekeeper, with his voice of iron, demanding the identity of the one who had dared to return to the Brass Citadel in defeat. And finally, Skul’rath, forcing himself to stand, forcing himself to speak. Skul’rath the Tamed, Skul’rath the Broken.

  Anhur had seen it all before. The image of the vanquished was cast across the Eight Realms, to every daemon-lord and war-leader as a warning and a call to arms. For the first time in centuries, the name of Sigmar reverberated through the Brass Citadel, and echoed in the minds of all those whom Khorne had blessed. The Hammer of Heaven had come once more, and the Mortal Realms shook at his tread.

  Anhur shuddered, forcing the images aside. The daemon’s rage fed his own, and threatened to devour him from inside out. But he pushed it down, denying it, forcing himself to remain calm. If he gave in now, all was lost. He heard the clink of Volundr’s chain, and drew strength from the sound.

  The blood crawled across the air, spreading and drying as the bodies of the slain began to blacken and smoke, filling Anhur’s nose with the stink of burning flesh. The daemon was venting its fury in the only way open to it. Pazak’s blightkings lumbered towards their master, drawing their corroded and dripping weapons as they did so. Volundr hefted his anvil warily. ‘He is beyond reason, the broken fool,’ the skullgrinder growled.

  ‘Calm yourself, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur began, knowing even as he did so, that it was the wrong thing to say. Another roar shook the chamber, and dust sifted down as the walls and dome cracked. The struggles of the things squirming on the floor became more frenzied. They hissed and screeched and the sound of Skul’rath’s fury pounded against Anhur’s eardrums. The heat of his rage beat at the air. The obsidian plates began to spin faster and faster, as things pressed against the black surface, like swimmers in tar.

  ‘Impossible,’ Pazak muttered. ‘The way is not yet open.’

  ‘What is impossible for us is but the work of a moment for the gods,’ Anhur said. Skul’rath might have been nothing more than a shard of the Blood God given mi
nd and purpose, but even the shard of a god could accomplish the unthinkable.

  Pazak began to chant, but too late. Geysers of blood and meat exploded upwards, and monstrous shapes, lean of limb and athirst for slaughter, raced into reality. Black blades swept out, hacking a blightking down. Anhur parried a blow with his axe and caught his attacker’s throat with his free hand. The bloodletter squirmed and hissed. It tried to rip itself free and Anhur snapped its neck with a flick of his wrist. The body began to dissolve even as he flung it aside.

  More of the daemons sprang from the gore. A trio of the red-limbed killers flung themselves at him, blades sizzling as they carved bloody contrails through the air. Anhur stepped forward, and smashed the first of the daemons to the ground. His blood sang as he fought, and the air throbbed with the shrieking murder-hymns of the damned. Volundr fought beside him, his wide shape twisting and spinning with impossible agility as he swung his anvil and chain to crush the skulls of daemons.

  He felt a wash of sour heat, and saw a flash of sickly light out of the corner of his eye. Pazak, Anhur thought, and felt his battle-lust recede. If the sorcerer were killed, then all had been for naught. In his mad rage, Skul’rath might destroy all that they had worked for. Anhur turned, and saw bloodletters flinging themselves at the sorcerer and his bodyguards. The blightkings were few, but strong, and Pazak was no weakling. He’d drawn the scabrous blade from its rotting sheath on his hip and as Anhur started forward, the sorcerer beheaded a bloodletter.

  ‘Skul’rath, cease this madness,’ Anhur roared, as he hacked down a daemon. Streamers of pale red steam rose from the floor, as more daemons fought and clawed their way free of the blood and gore. ‘Would you doom all we have strived for, in the name of petulance?’

  ‘I am not broken! I yet stand – I yet kill. I will break the world and offer up its shards to Khorne,’ Skul’rath roared. ‘I will have my vengeance – a million skulls shall I offer up...’ The bloodletters twitched and grew more frenzied in their attack, as their bodies began to steam and slough away into nothing. Skul’rath’s rage had forced them into solidity, but that alone was not enough to sustain them. Anhur chopped through the midsection of another daemon, and it exploded into nothingness as his blade passed through it.