WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 03(R)-Forged by Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  Naagan, in that last instant, had cast his own spell, weaving an aethyric shell about himself that blocked the worst of Vakaan’s magic. The disciple staggered away from the steaming husks of his soldiers, his red robes singed, his white hair smouldering, but otherwise unmarked.

  Vakaan snarled behind his helm. He gathered the winds of magic to him, shaping another spell. The elf would not be so lucky this time.

  The daemon disc was suddenly jostled as a springing weight smashed down upon it. Vakaan felt slender arms wrap about him in a murderous clutch, the edge of a dagger scraping against his feathered robes. Only the supernatural toughness of the feathers protected him, foiling the disembowelling thrust of the dagger. Torn from the wings of a chimera, the feathers Vakaan wore had surprised many would-be assassins. Now Beblieth the witch elf could add herself to that number.

  Beblieth had climbed one of the steel columns while the other dark elves took aim, a contingency should the magus escape the barrage. She sprang down upon Vakaan from the lower jaw of a gargoyle skull, intent upon killing him before he was aware she was there. Now, her dagger turned by the weird feathered armour, she tightened her hold on the sorcerer’s neck and tried to press her poisoned lips against his mouth.

  Vakaan brought the head of his staff cracking back against the witch elf’s face. Beblieth shrieked as the hot metal sizzled against her pale skin, searing a crooked scar into her cheek. Her grip loosened as pain overwhelmed her. Vakaan stamped his foot, the daemon disc spinning around in response. The shift in motion caused the dark elf to lose her hold completely. Screaming her fury, she fell from the back of the disc, hurtling towards the floor fifty feet below.

  As she fell, Beblieth swung her arm back, hurling her dagger at the magus. The envenomed blade glanced off the edge of the disc, missing the sorcerer. Vakaan lifted his staff, green fire blazing from his eyes. Before he could unleash his vengeful magic, Beblieth’s flailing arms caught hold of a skeletal gargoyle. With acrobatic grace, the elf turned her plummet into a spin, arching her body so that she rolled behind the steel column as she fell. The jade lightning Vakaan sent sizzling from his staff smashed harmlessly against the metal pillar.

  The magus started to urge his steed downwards to finish the witch elf when a chance turn of his head noticed the immense shape of Kaarn storming down the steps, Urbaal sprawled helpless before him.

  Vakaan hesitated, debating whether to help the Chosen or leave him to his fate. There was still a chance he could escape the Fortress of Brass and indeed the whole of the Bastion Stair with the Spear. He would be welcomed as a hero by Tchar’zanek.

  Urbaal’s warning that the Bastion Stair might not linger in the same place long enough for the Raven Host to return echoed through Vakaan’s mind. If that happened, the Spear would be useless to them. Kakra the Timeless would remain the captive of Var’Ithrok and the Winds of Chaos would remain fettered beyond the Portal of Rage.

  Personal glory warred with his duty to the Raven Host for mastery of Vakaan’s soul. The magus stared down, watching Urbaal stir slowly as Kaarn lumbered towards him and knew what he had to do.

  Kormak rolled onto his side, feeling his battered body protest even the thought of motion. He saw Urbaal swatted aside by Kaarn’s axe, watched as the champion crashed down the brass steps. The daemon prince started to lumber after him, intent on slaughtering his helpless prey. Kormak ground his fangs against the pain and forced himself up. He did not bother to find his axe, but willed his arm to become one for him.

  The marauder was not the only one returning to the attack. Gorgut and his orcs were charging at the daemon, howling like mad beasts. Their weapons slashed and crashed against the back of Kaarn’s cuirass. The daemon prince spun around, roaring back at the greenskin throng. For an instant, the orcs recoiled. Then Gorgut threw back his head and roared back at the monster, punctuating his fury with an overhanded swing of his axe that broke Kaarn’s tusk and buried itself in his lip.

  The daemon shrieked in fury. He thundered back up the steps, pushing the orcs before him. Gorgut swung from Kaarn’s face, refusing to release his axe. Kaarn worked his jaw, trying to knock the greenskin free. Gorgut kicked out, cracking more of the daemon’s teeth. The axe pulled free and the orc started to fall. Gorgut grabbed hold of Kaarn’s horn, swinging from it like a jungle ape. Gorgut’s axe came slashing at Kaarn’s face with each roll of the orc warlord hanging from his horn.

  Kormak moved to join the orcs in their fight, determined to die in battle. As he turned, however, he saw Tolkku rushing up the steps. A purple light glowed from the painted skull the zealot held. The Kurgan was running at the wounded Urbaal. For an instant, Kormak thought the zealot was hurrying to the Chosen’s aid, but then he saw the cold gleam in Tolkku’s eyes, the vindictive smile twisting his tattooed face.

  In a flash, Kormak understood the murderous treachery in Tolkku’s hand. The purple skull would not heal the Chosen, it would kill him!

  A stabbing pain seized Kormak’s heart. Renegade and wanderer, he had felt something new following Urbaal, joining his fate to that of the Chosen’s quest. He could have left after Urbaal had broken Tolkku’s power over him, but Kormak had stayed. He was part of something greater than himself now. Fail or triumph, Urbaal would lead him to glory such as the marauder had never dreamed of.

  The Norscan threw himself down the stairs, pouncing upon Tolkku like a raging tiger. Kormak’s huge body smashed into the lean Kurgan zealot, smashing Tolkku hard against the brass steps only a few paces from the staggered Urbaal. The Chosen turned and watched as Kormak grabbed the zealot’s hand, the purple skull still clenched in his fingers.

  Tolkku snarled at Kormak. The zealot tried to draw his dagger from its sheath, but Kormak pressed close against him, pinning his arm against his belly. The two men strained, Kurgan trying to slide his arm free from the Norscan’s implacable grip. It was a struggle that could not last long.

  The zealot screamed as Kormak snapped his arm like a rotten stick. The marauder bent the shattered limb back upon itself, pressing the glowing skull against Tolkku’s horrified face. He screamed again as the skin blackened beneath the skull’s enchanted energies. It peeled away from his face in strips. The corruption spread, crawling with hellish speed through his entire head. When Kormak let go and the zealot crashed to the floor, only a scorched skull rose from his neck.

  ‘My thanks, Norscan,’ Urbaal said. Stiffly, the Chosen regained his feet.

  ‘Our debt is settled,’ Kormak answered with a grunt. ‘You saved me from this coward once.’

  Urbaal nodded his understanding. He turned his eyes to the top of the stairs. The orcs had drawn Kaarn after them, pulling the daemon prince through the archway and into a huge cage-like atrium. The scarlet hell-light of the Fortress was even more intense within the atrium, mephitic vapours billowing from metal vents in the floor. The daemon prince had butchered its way through most of the orc’s crew now, only Gorgut and Dregruk remaining. Arrows from Zagbob continued to sprout uselessly from Kaarn’s crimson flesh.

  ‘The daemon will finish us all,’ Urbaal sighed, ‘but I promise it will know it has been in a fight before I am through!’

  The Chosen began to limp up the stairs, focused upon the seemingly unkillable monster. Suddenly, he found his path blocked by the hovering form of Vakaan and his steed. The magus smiled at Urbaal. Leaning down, he handed the Chosen the blackened length of the Spear. Urbaal returned his sword to its sheath and took the relic from Vakaan’s lean hands.

  ‘Be careful,’ Vakaan cautioned. ‘I will need that back when you are through with it.’

  Urbaal clenched his fists about the heft of the Spear. He glanced back at Kormak. ‘Have you ever hunted tuskgors?’

  Kaarn stomped his hoof down hard against the vent, denting the bronze bars. A spurt of scalding red steam erupted about the daemon, blistering his skin. The monster ignored the stinging vapour, his crazed eyes searching for his elusive enemy. Having finally knocked the black orc from his horn, now Ka
arn intended to grind him into paste.

  The daemon prince hissed with satisfaction as he saw the black orc hobbling away. Now there was nowhere left for him to run. Kaarn ignored the goblin arrows whistling into his flesh, an annoyance beneath his notice. He would let the bloodletters of the Fortress feast on the irritating flea. But the black orc, the black orc was his.

  Kaarn threw back his head in pain as something slammed into his back. He fumbled at his spine, ripping free the heavy axe that had chopped into his body. The monster turned about, burning eyes hunting for the over-bold foe who had thrown the weapon at him.

  ‘Here, you pig-sucking child-eater!’ Kormak howled at the daemon.

  The daemon’s eyes seemed to boil in their sockets, its snout curling in a loud snort of fury. Hooves denting the floor, Kaarn charged at the mocking Norscan, thundering back across the atrium towards the stairs.

  Kormak held his ground, watching the daemon lunge at him. He waited until the last possible second and threw himself from the daemon’s path, slamming against the floor.

  Kaarn hurtled onwards, even a daemon prince unable to stop his murderous momentum. Instead of the jeering Norscan, he found himself leaping at the sombre figure of Urbaal, the black length of the Spear fixed in his hands. The Chosen braced himself for the daemon’s charge, setting the butt of the Spear against the corner of the step.

  Kaarn slammed into the Spear with the force of a charging mastodon. The monster’s momentum drove the relic through its cuirass. The daemon stared in disbelief at the armoured mortal below him. The huge axes fell from his claws as the fingers began to blacken, crumbling into ash. A look of agony pulsed through Kaarn’s eyes. With a last effort, he tried to gore Urbaal with his horns. Even as the steel-shod horn brushed against Urbaal’s shoulder, it was falling apart, breaking into little blackened clumps of cinder.

  Urbaal stared in amazement at the weapon gripped in his hands, something between awe and horror racing along his spine. Kaarn the Vanquisher, daemon prince of the Blood God, a fiend that had butchered nations, a terror that had murdered every hero who stood against him was dying, his unnatural life crumbling away, devoured by the awful power of the Spear.

  The daemon threw back its head, howling in outrage, incensed that all the long ages of its hideous life should end in such a manner. Kaarn’s furious eyes glared at Urbaal, then collapsed into cinders. The rest of the daemon prince’s physical body followed. Soon there was nothing left of Kaarn the Vanquisher except a heap of ashes and a stench of blood.

  ‘So passes Kaarn,’ Vakaan pronounced, his daemon steed drifting downwards. He shifted the ashes with the tip of his staff, letting the spectral breeze of the Fortress carry them away.

  Urbaal slumped against the step, breathing hard, winded by the fierce exertions of the fight. ‘You could have helped more,’ he told the magus, half in jest.

  ‘I was busy hunting elves,’ Vakaan returned. ‘Unfortunately, there were a few I didn’t find.’

  ‘This place will soon settle the traitors,’ Urbaal said.

  ‘I hope not,’ Kormak said, making his painful way down the steps to sink down beside Urbaal. ‘There is still a reckoning between me and that elf witch!’

  The men turned their heads, looking up as they heard Gorgut and Dregruk stomping back from the atrium. The two orcs stared in confusion at the humans and the pile of ash.

  ‘Where’d that ugly git bottle off ta!’ Gorgut bellowed, one paw clutching a bleeding knee. ‘I ain’t dun wiv dat zoogin grot-fondla!’

  Despite their fatigue and their wounds, despite the horror of their surroundings and the malignant presence of the Blood God, the three northmen broke into laughter.

  The brass halls quickly became a confusing maze to Naagan. He did not know which path they had taken, which way might lead them back out to the face of the Bastion Stair. How they would survive a climb down that awful structure, he did not know. He only knew that their chances were better outside than inside. He turned his head as for what seemed the thousandth time he caught a furtive movement in the shadows behind one of the skull-faced pillars. If the daemons of this place decided to attack them now, their chances would quickly drop to none.

  His chances, Naagan corrected himself. He stared spitefully at the witch elf stalking through the halls beside him. She was a witness, she could bring word of his failure to the Hag Queen. The Temple of Khaine would not forgive him for losing the Spear of Myrmidia. He intended to blame the fiasco on Pyra, or perhaps even Prince Inhin. It was a lie that would sit easily on his tongue. But a lie was always safest when there was only one to tell it.

  ‘Which way?’ he asked Beblieth, careful to keep his thoughts from his face.

  The witch elf turned, gesturing at the hall behind them. ‘Three turns to the left, one to the right,’ she hissed.

  Naagan’s eyes blazed with annoyance. ‘We are not going back there!’ he snarled. ‘They will be on their guard now. I do not intend to die for your stupid vendetta!’

  ‘Perhaps you won’t have to,’ Beblieth hissed back.

  As quick as the witch elf was, Naagan was quicker. The disciple’s dagger stabbed between her ribs, just beneath her armoured bodice. He sprang away as soon as the blade struck her, as diabolic smile on his cadaverous face. The poison on the blade would kill in seconds.

  Beblieth reached to her side, pulling the dagger free. She stared at Naagan. Slowly a cold smile worked itself onto her face. The disciple retreated before her advance.

  ‘Have you forgotten, Naagan,’ she snarled. ‘The Temple weans its children on such poison.’

  ‘It will still kill you,’ Naagan insisted. ‘Your body might resist its effects for a few hours, but you will still die!’ He took another faltering step back and pointed at the witch elf. ‘Unless I use my magic to heal you, you will die!’

  Beblieth pounced on the disciple, driving his own dagger deep into his heart. Her lips brushed against his ear. ‘Do you think I am fool enough to trust you to cure me of your own poison?’ she hissed. A twist of her hand and she ripped his dagger free. Scornfully, she wiped the blade on Naagan’s robes.

  Beblieth felt the wound in her side. What Naagan had said was true. Her body had built up a resistance to poison, but not immunity. The poison would do its terrible work, just too late to do the disciple any good.

  A fierce smile spread over the witch elf’s face as she reached a decision. She was dying, but she had a few hours of life left. A few hours to sow such havoc as she still could.

  Vengefully, Beblieth turned about, gliding back down the silent corridors of brass.

  Three turns to the left, one to the right.

  Chapter nineteen

  Kormak followed the others up into the red-lit atrium at the top of the brass steps. He gave a final glance at the corpse of Tolkku. There had been enough elixirs and cordials hidden in his bag to heal the worst of the warband’s hurts, a final gift from a man who had proven himself traitor. Kormak chuckled grimly as he looked at that leathery bag, bulging with the zealot’s collection of skulls. As a parting gesture, Kormak had started his own collection – tying the desiccated head of the Kurgan to his belt.

  The atrium’s gruesome aura had not diminished with the destruction of Kaarn. It still had the reek of an abattoir, the lurking malignance of a murderer’s den. Crimson mist continued to rise from the grated vents in the floor. A disembodied wail, a chorus of the slaughter, hissed through the brass latticework of the chamber’s rear wall. Flickers of shadow, burning shapes of scarlet and gold shifted between the gaps in the metal plates, hinting at the hostile desolation beyond.

  Vakaan turned his disc about, facing his comrades. The magus held a silver knife in his hand. The membranes slid shut across his eyes. ‘Last chance to turn back,’ he told Urbaal.

  Urbaal did not answer, simply shook his head and tightened his grip on the Spear. Vakaan sighed and nodded. The disc rotated back around, facing the magus once more towards the rounded wall. He brought the edge of his kn
ife slicing across his palm. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the blood pooling on his skin spattering against the brass plates.

  There was a grinding shriek as the sheets of metal bubbled and shivered, corroding where Vakaan’s blood struck them. Like melting wax, the wall disintegrated, flowing down the grated vents, choking the crimson steam. The magus gestured with his staff and his daemon steed drifted through the opening.

  Beyond the atrium was a gigantic amphitheatre, its walls forged from bronze, ringed with the tusks of monstrous beasts. Great spear-like spires rose from the bronze walls, stabbing into the bruised sky. Immense totems, gigantic pillars of brass and bone, loomed between the spires, each totem tipped with a mammoth skull-rune cast in gold. Against the walls, repeated in endless succession, the skull-rune was etched in steel, edged in bloodstone and ringed by brass.

  At the far end of the circular, arena-like space the gigantic antlers of the Bastion Stair towered above the walls. Immense faces, fanged and shrieking, pressed against its blackened surface, struggling for release. They were held by the brass settings of the angular antlers, great curls of metal that moaned and shuddered against the fury of its captives. Between the antlers, lashed to them by enormous chains of steel, three gigantic rings of ebony and gold were suspended, each ring jagged with spike-like arrows that jutted from their outer edges. There was motion in the rings, a constant struggle to rotate into some new pattern, a struggle thwarted only by the daemon-forged chains.

  Beneath the straining rings stretched a great doorway. There seemed no end to its threshold, simply opening into a red oblivion without beginning or ending. The blood-crazed eternity of Khorne.

  Kormak stepped out into the arena, his eyes immediately drawn to the angry sky above. Dark clouds like clotted blood stormed through a violet crimson sky. Fires smouldered behind the clouds, casting their blazing light upon the blighted land. Their fumes crashed against one another like charging armies, the roar of thunder booming with each impact, red rain dripping as they boiled into nothingness, consumed by their own violence. Kormak could feel himself being drawn into that sky, hear the beckoning shouts of warlords and kings welcoming him into their eternal war. It was only with a Herculean effort that he refused their calls and tore his eyes from the celestial battlefield.