by C. L. Werner
Snikkit snatched his confiscated staff from where it leaned against the wall of the cave and slowly shuffled into the tunnel beyond. Dregruk and Gorgut followed after the sinister goblin. Zagbob simply stared at the mess of the popped squig and began quietly considering ideas for revenge.
It became easier for Zagbob once he started dismissing those that might entail any sort of danger to himself.
Vision returned to Kormak as a red fog. Drums sounded inside his head, drowning out his thoughts, leaving only a numb stupor. He pressed a hand to his eyes, pinching them closed again. The effort seemed to help the pounding in his brain. Slowly, he strained his powerful arms to lift his body.
The marauder found himself lying upon a reed pallet strewn with furs and skins. There was a murky smell of smoke and tanned leather, a grimy taste of blood and sweat to the air. Kormak gritted his teeth and gradually opened his eyes again. The drumming inside his head lessened, feeling like a blunt knife pressing against the inside of his skull instead of an entire sword.
‘You should be dead,’ the hated voice of Tolkku said.
Kormak flinched from the zealot’s clammy touch as the leprous hand of the priest patted his scalp. ‘The sorcery of Odvaha should have killed you. It is my magic you may thank that you are still among the living.’
‘I will remember that,’ Kormak growled at Tolkku, rising from the pallet. He could see now that he was inside a large tent of stitched hide. It did not resemble the yurts of the Hung or the huts of the Kurgans, but was more like the shelters erected by Norscan hunters. The familiarity gave him a reassuring sense of kinship with the place. After so long among the horrors of the Wastes and the savagery of the Inevitable City, even this echo of his homeland was invigorating to his spirit.
‘Indeed,’ Tolkku said. ‘Every soul you send to Mighty Tzeentch will be owed in part to my magic.’
Kormak turned his head slowly, fixing the zealot with his piercing gaze. ‘Then let us see how the Raven God likes yours!’ The marauder’s arm shot out, changing and twisting into a fleshy rope of muscle and sinew. The tentacle whipped at Tolkku, lashing towards the priest’s neck.
Tolkku merely grinned at the display. Kormak felt his arm shudder before it could strike the zealot, rippling with pain as though he had punched a wall of solid stone. Sickness bubbled in his guts, doubling him over in agony. Tears clouded his sight as he stared at the weirdly painted skull the zealot held in his hand.
‘Let that also be a reminder of the gifts the Raven God has given me,’ Tolkku warned. ‘You will live until it ceases to amuse me. Then I will add your skull to my collection.’
‘I… will… kill… you…’ Kormak squeezed each word through clenched teeth.
‘This says otherwise,’ the zealot laughed, stroking the painted pate of the weird skull he held. ‘I wonder what magic will be inside your head when I claim it?’ he mused, almost to himself.
Kormak retreated from the jeering zealot. Spying the Kurgan axe he had used to cripple Odvaha, the marauder seized the weapon, his hand exulting in the chill of steel beneath his fingers. Let the zealot brag of his powers while he could. Kormak would find a way to break the sorcerous shackles Tolkku had bound about him. And when he did, it would be the zealot’s turn to squirm.
The marauder pulled open the flap of the tent, emerging into a small circle of similar huts clustered about a smouldering bonfire. The charred husks of several skeletons rose from the centre of the conflagration, impaled upon thick pine stakes. There was only the faintest hint of scorched flesh on the wind, so Kormak knew it had been many hours since the wretches had met their fiery fate.
The terrain about the camp was rocky and rugged, a jagged stretch of foothill almost barren of greenery. Ugly grey dust cloaked everything in a grimy coating, like clumps of cobweb spun from dirt. Kormak could even see the strange dust clinging to the armour of the warriors he could see sparring in the field above the tents, sending little clouds of spidery strands coughing into the air with each thrust or parry. Ragged banners displaying the symbols of the Raven Host and its subordinate tribes fluttered from rough posts scattered throughout the warcamp.
Kormak felt his attention drawn away from the sparring Norscans, away from the hide tents and the grim bonfire. The familiar, imposing aura of the Chosen was too compelling to ignore. He could see the armoured bulk of Urbaal the Corruptor standing at the base of one of the cliffs that loomed above the camp, the robed figure of Vakaan Daemontongue beside him. The two champions of the Raven God were speaking with a tigerish Norscan raider leaning upon an immense double-bladed great axe.
‘You will need more men if you would take the Bastion Stair,’ the Norscan was telling Urbaal. ‘When I sent Jodis Wolfscar, she had the whole of the Bloodherd with her. A bunch of filthy gors, I grant, but enough muscle to butcher their way through anything! That was nine days past and I’ve not seen hide nor hair of Jodis or any of her warband. They say the Bastion Stair itself devoured them all.’
‘Keep the superstitious prattle to yourself, Ljotur Arason,’ Vakaan scoffed. ‘The Blood God has no power over true followers of the Changer! If your wench and her brutes failed, it was because they were not worthy of serving the Raven God.’
Ljotur stiffened at the mockery of the magus. He sneered at the bird-like sorcerer, stroking his thick moustache with his thumb. ‘Just as Odvaha said you were unworthy? You had better succeed warlock! Prince Tchar’zanek will not forgive you killing his favourite sorcerer. Breaking open the gate may be the only way to get him to spare your souls.’ He shook his head and laughed. ‘No, I do not think I would trade places with you, magus, whatever glory the warlord has promised you.’
‘There is no glory greater than serving the Raven God,’ Urbaal’s steely voice intoned. ‘By harnessing the dumb might of the Blood God’s realm we shall make the Raven Host strong! Strong enough to wipe away the weak Empire and bring the glory of Tchar’zanek to the very corners of the world!’
Ljotur nodded in grudging agreement with Urbaal’s sentiment. ‘My scouts have seen some of our enemies. It is strange for them to be this far north of the Troll Country. I have consulted my seer and he has seen an elven wizard clad in white and silver in his dreams. He has seen the elf take the Eternal Blade and drive it into the Mouth of Tzeentch, bringing hurt even to the true gods! He has also seen a northman, swollen with the blessings of Tchar, take the Eternal Blade and with it throw open the gates of glory and cast down the portal of rage.’
‘Which vision is true?’ Urbaal demanded. Ljotur shrugged his shoulders.
‘Both. Neither. It is never safe to depend upon the prophecies of the seers. The Raven God answers every question only with more questions.’ The Norscan tapped the heft of his axe. ‘This is what I depend on. I advise you to do the same. Still, the presence of Empire-men this far north, and in such numbers, makes me wonder if perhaps my seer did have a true vision.’
Urbaal straightened, his armour shining darkly in the light of the gibbous moons. The Chosen beat his armoured hand against his breastplate. ‘Let the coward southlanders send their cringing whelps. The Raven God will gorge upon them all!’
Chapter Seven
Narrow valleys writhed between the craggy peaks of broken hills, their jagged faces split and weeping stagnant brown filth. Ugly plants like thorny vines clung to the valley walls, reaching at the men who dared stray so close to them, sphincter-like mouths slopping open in unclean bloodlust. The sky overhead faded gradually into a garish violet, and from it strange lights dripped, sputtering against the rocks like splashes of fire.
Urbaal crouched over something sprawled against the wall of the valley, ripping away clumps of hungry vines to expose the nature of their meal. He grunted as he saw his guess confirmed. What lay under the vines had been a man once, a weathered Norscan with rich blond hair and a beard. The body was shrivelled, the skin distorted by the pock-mark wounds where the vines had fed, but the dark boiled leather armour and jewelled arm-rings made it clear he was
no starveling mountain brigand, but a warrior of the Raven Host.
Vakaan moved towards Urbaal, the vines cringing from the magus as his daemonic platform drew near. The monkey-familiar on Vakaan’s shoulder gibbered excitedly, hopping up and down. The magus pointed to a deep series of slashes across the man’s breast. They were old wounds, nearly scarred over and made long before the man had died.
‘The claws of a wolf,’ Vakaan said.
Urbaal nodded his armoured head.
‘He bears the mark of one of Wolfscar’s men,’ the Chosen agreed. He glanced at the bleak pass around them. ‘Ljotur was right. They did come this way.’
Tolkku pushed his way through the burly shapes of Urbaal’s warriors to crouch beside the body. The zealot passed his hands over the corpse, plucking at the gore-drenched garments, exposing a gaping wound in the body’s midsection. He dipped a finger in the sticky waste, putting it to his mouth. ‘Dead a few days,’ he decided, spitting out the taste. ‘Killed by a spear from the looks of it.’
‘It was a lance.’
All three of the leaders turned to regard the speaker. The surviving warriors of Urbaal’s retinue grudgingly stepped aside for Kormak. The warband had lost most of their horses in the battle with Odvaha and his daemons, the rest had been left behind at Ljotur Arason’s camp. Kormak had found a grim satisfaction seeing the haughty knights reduced to marching through the broken terrain of the valley. Now he took renewed satisfaction from the spiteful eyes that watched him from behind the masks of their helms. The Norscan snorted with contempt. He had seen these men fight. The only one he respected was Urbaal; the others he could slaughter like sheep given the chance and an absence of sorcery.
Kormak thrust his hand into the wound, expanding his fingers until they brushed each side. He pulled his hand free, the fingers still splayed, demonstrating the size of the weapon that had killed the man. ‘Bigger than the hunting spears of Kislev and the Hung,’ Kormak said. ‘Only the horse-soldiers of the Empire use this kind of weapon.’
‘No horse could cross this ground,’ Urbaal’s metallic voice intoned. ‘Certainly not the weakling steed of a southlander.’
‘Then he wasn’t struck down here,’ Kormak answered. He pointed at the squirming vines. ‘The man might have crawled here from wherever the fight took place. The plants would have licked up any trail his wound left behind.’
Tolkku clapped his hands together at the idea, a grisly smile spreading beneath his tattoos. ‘We can follow the vines back,’ he said, gesturing at the writhing plants and their puckered mouths. There was a subtle difference in colour between those that had feasted on the dead warrior and those that had not. Further down the wall of the valley, other clumps of vine could be seen with a faint pinkish hue to them.
Urbaal strode to one of the writhing clumps of pinkish weed. He stretched his hand towards the vines, not flinching as the leafy tendrils coiled around his gauntlet. With a snarl, he pulled free, ripping strands of vine from the wall. It was not sap but blood that dripped from the torn stalks. Blood lapped up from the trail of a dying man.
‘We follow the vines,’ Urbaal declared, tossing aside the quivering stalks. ‘They will lead us to Jodis Wolfscar.’
‘What if the southlanders won the fight?’ asked Vakaan.
Urbaal stared hard at the magus, then glared at the bruised sky above. ‘This is the land of the true gods,’ the Chosen declared. ‘The faithless southlanders will win nothing here except their doom.’
A flash of scarlet light exploded within the snow-bound ring of megaliths. Clouds of foul black vapour rose from the circle, choking the vultures flying overhead. Scrabbling things, like the profane progeny of scorpions and eels, emerged from their refuges, scuttling into the maze of cactus that sprawled all around the plateau of the megaliths. The gnaw of unholy magic made skin-trunked trees rip their roots from the milky soil and creep away from the standing circle in a grotesque exodus of swaying branches and dripping brain-fruit.
From within the light and smoke, lithe figures emerged. Even finding themselves in a landscape of horror and madness, the druchii maintained the arrogance of their step, the contempt of all things in their knife-like faces. Cloaked shades carefully stole from the ring of stones, crossbows gripped in their gloved hands, eyes watching the monstrous terrain for the first sign of aggression.
Prince Inhin brushed Norscan snow from his armour, snapping his fingers and waving his warriors to take up positions on either flank of the warband. The snow was strangely incongruous beside the scintillating powdery frost that clung to the megaliths. A sinister breeze blew a flurry of the shimmering stuff straight into the clump Inhin had cast off. The patches of disparate snow flowed into each other, melting and boiling like animate things. Inhin could not shake the image of two colonies of ants trying to exterminate one another. The noble shuddered at the strange impression and looked away.
‘We are here, my prince,’ Pyra said, bowing low before her master.
Inhin stared at the sorceress, eyes drifting down the pale leg the cut of her dress exposed, then lifting to appreciate the fullness of her carriage. He found the coy gleam in her eye less appealing. When this was done, he would blind the woman. She didn’t need eyes to serve his needs and it would be amusing to watch her trying to cast spells without the ability to consult her grimoires and scrolls.
‘Here?’ Prince Inhin spat. ‘Where the hell is here? This looks no different than the last three wastelands your magic has taken us!’ Inhin’s voice dropped into a low, sinister whisper. ‘If you tell me we must march to another of your damn circles, I promise I shall strip you naked and stake you out for the harpies when we return to Naggaroth. Maybe I’ll let Sardiss join you so you don’t get lonely waiting for the harpies to eat you alive.’
Pyra’s expression curled into a sneer. ‘You may do with Sardiss as you like, once we do not need him any more. As for my magic, you would do well to remember its power.’ A fiery glow entered the elf’s eyes, sparks of flame that singed her brows. ‘Especially here, my prince.’ She lifted her staff, pointing with it at the sky above them. Some of Inhin’s arrogance deserted him when he stared up at the angry bruise that marked the heavens. Everything else, from walking trees to fighting snow, he had been able to accept, but somehow seeing the sky changed and twisted offended him to the very core of his being.
‘We are here,’ Pyra repeated. ‘And now the hunt can truly begin.’
Inhin recovered himself, clapping his hands together. At his summons, Beblieth sauntered over to the nobleman, an exaggerated swagger to every lascivious twist of hip and shoulder. Pyra’s eyes narrowed as she saw the hungry way the witch elf looked at Inhin.
‘I have need of your service,’ Inhin told Beblieth. ‘Scout ahead of my shades. We are looking for the asur wizard and the human animals he has brought with him. Find him and I shall reward you.’
‘I am ready to obey my prince in whatever way he commands,’ Beblieth told him. Inhin could not fail to notice the way her tongue lingered over her lips when she finished speaking.
‘Then you must do your best to please me,’ he said. ‘Find the loremaster and bring me his head.’ Inhin looked over at Pyra. ‘Oh, and that little thing Pyra wants if you happen to find it. She tells me it might be useful.’
Beblieth sketched a salute, marching through the ring of Inhin’s warriors and the perimeter of shades. Inhin watched the witch elf vanish into the creeping forest of crawling trees.
‘You place too much trust in her,’ Pyra warned him, unable to keep a trace of jealousy from her voice.
‘I am not so mad as to take a witch elf into my bed,’ Inhin laughed. ‘But I am realistic enough to appreciate what she can do. There is every chance she could kill the asur all by herself.’ He laughed again as he saw the flicker of disappointment on Pyra’s face. ‘There are bigger things to consider than petty revenge, my sweet. Things like conquering Tchar’zanek and his stupid animals and using them against that old fool Malekith and Uthor
in the pretender.’
Pyra’s smile softened. Her hand slowly stroked Inhin’s face, lingering so that he could kiss her fingers. ‘Of course, my prince,’ she whispered. ‘But you would not deny your favourite her little pleasures, would you?’
Inhin pulled her hand away, tightening his fingers about it in a fierce grip. Pyra winced as a little shiver of pain went down her arm. ‘So long as your pleasures do not interfere with my ambitions,’ he warned. Inhin released her, relishing the marks his fingers left behind. ‘If it makes you feel better, you can kill Beblieth after she brings me the loremaster’s head.’
The noble’s sardonic laugh was slithering through Pyra’s ears as she watched him stalk away. Soon, she promised herself, it would be time to dispense with Inhin and his pretensions.
Then she would only need to worry about Sardiss. She didn’t want a spy of the Witch King’s lurking around after she made her move. The easiest thing would be to pit them against each other, but that was exactly what the fools would be ready for.
‘Did he hurt you, my love?’ Sardiss demanded as he came up behind the sorceress. Pyra turned away from him with an indignant curl of her shoulder.
‘He’s done worse,’ she said.
‘I’ll serve you his heart on a silver platter,’ Sardiss promised, his strong hands gripping her shoulders.
‘Not yet,’ Pyra hissed. ‘Wait until the time is right, my champion. When Inhin has outlived my purposes, I shall help you skewer the pig. But until then you must wait and be patient.’
A black smile wormed its way onto Pyra’s face, unseen by the Black Guard. ‘When it is time to be rid of Inhin, you will be the first to know.’
Kormak roared with fury and drove his mutant arm into the torso of the screaming southlander. The bony blade gored through the soldier’s steel breastplate and pierced the leather hauberk beneath. Blood exploded from the man’s mouth and his sabre clattered down the rocky slope as it tumbled from weakened fingers. The marauder spun the dying wretch around, using his body to block the strike of a second soldier. The southlander held back his blow at the last second, afraid to hit his dying comrade. Kormak wrenched his arm free and sent the corpse hurtling down the slope at the man. Both soldiers collided and were set careening down the jumbled heap of broken stone. The Norscan threw back his horned head in a howl of exultant savagery and lunged after his fallen foe. He found the wretch wailing, his leg broken by his fall. Feebly he lifted his sword to defy the immense marauder. Kormak batted the weapon away with a contemptuous slash of his axe. The Norscan’s boot smashed into the soldier’s face, knocking him prone upon the ground. Kormak stood over the wretch, then brought his axe chopping down into the soldier’s head, splitting helm and skull like a rotten egg.