Warriors of the Chaos Wastes - C L Werner

by Warhammer

  The beast lurched forward again, growing a gaggle of mismatched legs to stumble after its prey. A mammoth limb that resembled a flail smashed into the ground with a sickening squelch, narrowly missing Einarr. The warrior slashed at the huge knot of bone and skin, gouging a hole in its side. Even as the monster withdrew it for another strike, Einarr could see the injury closing upon itself. Even glutted after devouring two villages, the monstrosity had lost none of its power. Einarr threw himself across the ground as a second giant paw swiped at his head. He rolled across the mire as the paw twisted with a boneless motion and ploughed into the ground.

  Einarr glared at the horror as it reared back, clattering in what could have seemed an insane mix of agitation, hunger and amusement. Touched by the gods or no, there had to be a way to hurt it, a way to make it know fear, a way to leave his mark upon it.

  A loathsome second head grew from the beast’s body, its mouthless lizard-like face spurting a spray of steaming blood from its empty sockets. The filth splashed across Einarr, catching his hand in its lethal wash. Warmth and pain suddenly replaced the numb cold that had claimed his left hand. Fangwyrm fell from his throbbing fingers as he doubled over in agony. The metal glove he had worn was pitted and melted, searing into his flesh. Einarr roared at the god-beast, hurling Rafn’s axe at the wretched face. The blade tumbled end over end, then sank into the scaly head. The tiny face tried to shriek without a mouth as its own blood began to consume it. The neck shrivelled and wilted, like a dying flower, leaving a black crust against the beast’s breast.

  The monster itself seemed oblivious to the fate of the second head it had grown, instead scuttling forward on its mismatched legs. Einarr dashed aside as the thing charged at him, cursing the impulse that had caused him to leap without recovering Fangwyrm from the mire. Now the monster stood between him and the blade. Its body shifted, its neck and head oozing into a new position on its formless mass. Einarr dove behind the only cover he could find, Alfkaell’s bier, as the immense bulk hurtled at him.

  The bloodbeast crashed into the stack of logs with the force of an avalanche. Einarr was thrown back amidst a cloud of splinters and blood-ridden mud, crashing against the timbers of the palisade. He tried to suck breath into his winded lungs, even as his eyes searched the charnel ruins around him for anything resembling a weapon. Above him, the beast was slithering over the top of the bier, crushing the logs and the body of Alfkaell beneath its enormity.

  Suddenly, the god-beast shuddered, retreating from the bier. Its jaws opened in a shriek of agony, smaller mouths rippling across its hide and joining its chorus of pain. Einarr could see a section of its body smoking, the flesh darkening into a black scab-like crust. The outline of the wound at once struck Einarr. It resembled a helm, tall and narrow and straight. He looked away from the monster, spotting the crushed body of Alfkaell and the equally flattened elf helm that had been resting on his breast.

  That was the secret, how the seer had maintained control over Skraevold’s god. Einarr pulled himself to the top of the smashed bier, dragging the ithilmar dagger from his belt. The bloodbeast gibbered and whined to itself, tongues emerging from its mass to lick its wound. As Einarr stood atop the bier, however, the thing’s hound-like face stared up at him. The warrior snarled back at it, shrieking his clan’s war cry as he dove down upon it.

  Einarr landed atop the hound-skull head, his feet sinking into the quagmire of its substance. He could feel his boots being consumed by the filth of the monster’s body, could feel its molten blood dissolving his skin. He put such pains from his mind, driving the ithilmar blade down into one of the black, shimmering eyes of the beast. It shrieked again, the organ exploding beneath his strike. The head reared back, almost throwing Einarr to the ground. He clutched at the side of its face with one hand, then stabbed a second eye, sinking his hand up to the wrist as he drove it deep into the skull.

  The beast was screaming from a hundred mouths now. Einarr could see its blood spurting everywhere as he destroyed a third and then a fourth eye. He tried not to look at the screaming faces that shifted and writhed in the thing’s blood, concentrating only in working his blade across the monster’s obscene bulk. Lashing tentacles whipped around him, flailing idiotically in their desperation to rip him free. As he struck a fifth eye, the head began to ooze back into the body, taking Einarr with it. Einarr braced himself to leap clear, but as he did so, he stared into one of the faces screaming within the beast’s blood. A new hate boiled over within him as he saw Asta’s tortured features. The warrior held firm, slashing a sixth eye as he disappeared into the oozing hulk.

  The bloodbeast quivered and shook, its faceless mass trying to crawl back towards the pit. Legs collapsed into puddles of filth as it moved, organs grew and withered with its every motion. Its immensity began to dwindle as portions of it dropped away and did not reform. The vibrant crimson of its substance darkened, the pulpy structure of its skin hardened and cracked. With a shudder, it slopped down against the ground, the impact causing great chunks of its body to slough away. The thing struggled to rise again, but what strength was in it was no more. It grew a wolf-like paw, raising it imploringly toward the sky. The limb crashed to the earth, crumbling into scabby clay even as the bulk that had spawned it grew still.

  The silence and stillness did not linger long. The beast’s body shuddered again, great clumps of it falling away, cracking against the earth. From within the gory innards of the horror, Einarr forced his way clear. From head to toe, his battered body was caked in the crusty residue of the bloodbeast, looking himself like some daemonic sending of the Blood God. Einarr lifted his hand into the sky, not in entreaty but in triumph. He shouted his victory to the heavens, to the cold thrones of the gods and the hallowed halls of his ancestors.

  Einarr stepped away from the quickly crumbling carcass of the god-beast, every muscle in his body feeling on fire. The warrior prowled among the carnage of his battle until he saw the hilt of Fangwyrm shining amid the crimson mire. He bent down to recover it, feeling naked with only the slim length of the ithilmar dagger in his hand. As he recovered the weapon, he saw that he was not alone.

  Just beyond the perimeter of the pit and its surroundings, a horseman stood, his shaggy war pony digging restlessly at the crimson earth. The rider atop the animal was clothed in skins and armoured plates of bluish steel. The helm that protected his head was wide and crowned with spikes of bone. Feather talismans dripped from the rider’s coal-black hair. The horseman’s skin was pale, almost white, his features broad and cruel. He met Einarr’s gaze, making no motion to draw the crook-bladed sword at his side.

  ‘For to glory-honour the Tchar-hand!’ the horseman called out, his Norse crude and twisted by foreign tones. Einarr made no move to lower his weapon. The accent and hair told him this was no Aesling, nor even a Norscan, but one from the Kurgan tribes. Kurgans in Norsca tended to be raiders and slavers, taking thralls to their own wind swept wastes and steel for their smithies. Keeping one eye on the horseman, Einarr tried to watch the ruined long houses of Skraevold for more Kurgans.

  ‘Make peace with the gods, man of the steppes,’ Einarr called back. He had learned the tongue of the Kurgan during the siege of Erengrad. ‘I have slain the god-beast of Skraevold. If you think your sword will kill what it could not, the ravens will pick your bones.’

  The Kurgan raised his hands, showing that he meant no harm. ‘I would not challenge he I have come so far to seek,’ the horseman said, returning to his native tongue. ‘Many days have I ridden the black wastes and the barren steppes to find you, Hand of Tchar.’

  ‘I am Einarr, of the Baersonlings,’ the Norscan told the Kurgan. He continued to watch the buildings for more Kurgans, certain that the horseman’s words were a trick.

  The Kurgan shook his head. ‘You are the Hand of Tchar, the one I have come to seek.’ He pointed at Einarr, gesturing to his left hand. Einarr looked down at it, seeing it as though for the first time. The metal glove he had worn was gone, consumed by
the searing blood of the beast, but the skin of his hand was largely untouched. Only in places was it marred, coated in molten metal from the ruined gauntlet. There was a pattern to the patches where the metal had adhered, covering only those places where the icy blood of the black eagle had numbed his flesh. Now, as he looked upon the weird metallic skin, Einarr could see the pattern it formed, the rippling moon-shape that was the sign of Tchar, the Lord of Change.

  ‘Who are you?’ Einarr demanded. Though his words were directed at the Kurgan, he could not pull his eyes from the change that had seized his hand.

  ‘Vallac, of the Khazags,’ the horseman said. ‘I heard Tchar whisper your name in the wind, saw your face written in the clouds.’ Vallac pulled his helmet from his head. A great patch of his scalp had been shaved and upon it, Einarr could see a tattoo, the tattoo of a rippling moon. As Einarr looked at it, it seemed to him that the tattoo’s hue shifted and changed. ‘I am a servant of Tchar. I know to read the signs he casts into the wind, and I know to follow the wisdom that is hidden in those signs. That is how I was led here, Einarr Steelfist. How I came to stand here, to witness you smite the mighty beast of Khorne.’

  Einarr turned from Vallac, stalking through the crusted remains of the beast, seeing if he could find Rafn’s axe. ‘The Changer is a trickster, Vallac of the Khazags. He has deceived you. There is no one here called Einarr Steelfist! I am Einarr Sigdansson! I am no champion of Tchar, or any of the gods.’ Once the prospect of becoming such would have filled Einarr’s mind with wondrous ambitions and mighty visions. Now, with his village gone, his kin slaughtered, the favour of the gods held nothing for him. He had no time for this Kurgan and his delusions.

  ‘But you are marked,’ Vallac persisted. ‘You are chosen. How else explain your victory over the beast? How else could you emerge unscathed from its fiery belly, your cloak and your armour and your flesh unmarked? Only where the sign of Tchar is written on you did the Changer allow the beast’s essence to sear you, so that he might mark you as one of his own.’

  The Kurgan’s words gave Einarr pause. He looked with new wonder at his unmarked hand, at the leather boots and fur cloak that stood whole on his body. He had seen the monster’s blood melt through steel, yet the simple hide of a bear had withstood it. The hairs on the back of Einarr’s neck rose. Vallac was right, a great force had guarded him in his fight, preserved him from the bloodbeast. He looked again at his hand, with its metal stigma. He could not doubt what force it was that had watched over him and allowed him to destroy the beast.

  Raw, naked hate flared up within Einarr. If such power could protect him against the beast, why had it not done so sooner? Why had it not preserved him in Vinnskor, where such protection might have saved his village? No, there was nothing here worth giving thanks to Tchar.

  Einarr found Rafn’s axe, stuffing the weapon through a loop on his belt. Without looking back at the Kurgan, he began to stride out of the village, heading north.

  ‘Where do you go?’ Vallac asked as Einarr walked away.

  ‘I head north,’ Einarr answered without turning. ‘There are many Aeslings there, and my axe still hungers.’

  Vallac kicked his steed’s flank, trotting after Einarr. ‘Tchar has guided me here,’ he said. ‘I do not know why. Until I have solved that riddle, I would follow you.’

  ‘Then follow, Kurgan,’ Einarr said. ‘There will be enough Aeslings for both our blades.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  With a gasp, Einarr tore himself from the dreams. Haunting visions of dripping, foul corridors and walls of rotting flesh lingered at the edge of his awareness, refusing to return to the domain of nightmare. A face, at once withered and bloated, glared at him from the edge of sleep before at last slipping back into the shadows. Despite the perpetual chill of the Norscan twilight, a thin sheen of sweat peppered his face. As full awareness returned to him, the bitter wind slammed into his damp features like the frozen breath of a snow giant.

  ‘It is the mark of a mighty warrior that the enemies he has slain stalk him beyond the wall of sleep.’

  Einarr took his leathery hand and wiped the frosty residue of sweat from his face, then turned to look at Vallac. The Kurgan sat close to the small fire he had made, roasting a plump rabbit he had killed. The Kurgan’s horse pawed anxiously at the snow behind Vallac, throwing its head from side to side in its agitation. As Vallac cooked his meal his sword stood beside him, thrust point first into the snow.

  ‘I know the face of every man, brute and monster that has bled its last upon my steel,’ Einarr replied. The Norscan pushed his way free of the heavy bearskin cloak he’d been using for a blanket. Groaning, Einarr stretched his half-frozen limbs, trying to force feeling back into them. ‘The spectres I saw in my sleep resembled none I have sent to see the gods.’

  Vallac leaned back from the fire, sucking at his teeth as he considered Einarr’s words. His dark features took on a thoughtful cast. ‘Perhaps your dreams are not dreams, but the voices of the gods.’

  Einarr’s harsh laughter greeted Vallac’s sagely suggestion. ‘The only men the gods speak to are the seers!’ he scoffed. ‘And they pay a dire price for such a gift. Their minds go strange, the strength passes from their bodies and their seed withers unspent inside them.’ The Baersonling shook his shaggy blond mane. ‘There are many women in the south who would tell you that Einarr Sigdansson is no seer!’

  The Kurgan shrugged his shoulders, reaching to tear some meat from the rabbit over the fire. ‘Norsca is a poor land then,’ Vallac said, ‘that the gods speak to so few. In the lands of the Kurgan, the gods are more free with their power. One has only to open one’s eyes to see their might, one only has to listen to hear their words. None among the Kurgan does not feel the will of the gods all around him.’

  Einarr crouched down beside the fire, ripping a leg from the rabbit. He tore at the meat with savage hunger, wiping the grease from his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Perhaps the gods understand that the Norse are a strong people,’ Einarr said between bites. ‘They do not need to watch after us like a shepherd watching his herd, for we are mighty enough to survive without them.’ Einarr stared into Vallac’s dark eyes. ‘I pity the Kurgan that the gods must watch them with such vigilance.’ He finished stripping meat from the rabbit leg and threw the bone away. ‘Perhaps one day your people will be as strong as the Norse.’

  Vallac smiled back at the Baersonling. ‘Perhaps one day your people will be important enough to interest the gods,’ he said. There was no malice in the Kurgan’s words. Like Einarr, his belief in the strength of his people was firm enough to endure the other’s challenge.

  Einarr reached towards the fire again, intending to rip a bit of meat from the rabbit. The symbol branded into his hand reflected the firelight as he did so. Vallac understood it was a deliberate gesture, a reminder to the Kurgan that at least one of the gods was interested in at least one of the Norse. Einarr sank back into a crouch, tearing at the scrap of meat.

  ‘Is it still out there?’ he asked, his voice lower with a note of caution in it. Vallac nodded.

  ‘I have heard it prowling among the trees,’ the Kurgan said. ‘It never comes near enough to the fire to be seen, but sometimes I can catch its eyes shining back at me from the forest.’

  Einarr digested his companion’s report. Since striking out into the land of the Aeslings three days ago, they had been followed, stalked by something that dogged their every move. Sometimes it would be ahead of them, other times behind them, but always it was there. They could hear it smashing its way through the brush. When the wind changed, its gut-churning stench would smash into them, a rancid combination of rotten meat and a midden heap. Three times Einarr had tired of being hunted, lunging into the forest to confront whatever was stalking them, but always the thing retreated deeper into the forest, trying to draw Einarr into its world. Even with his temper up, the Baersonling knew better than to fight any beast on its own ground. As he returned to the winding trail, he could hear the c
reature smacking branches against the trunks of trees, almost as if it were daring him to come back.

  ‘You think it to be a troll?’ Vallac asked, and there was a note of fear in his question. Einarr did not think any less of the Kurgan’s courage, no warrior relished the prospect of fighting a troll. With its immense strength, incredible stupidity and supernatural ability to regenerate, a troll would fight on long after any normal creature would lie down and die. Einarr had seen many men ripped to shreds by a troll with half its head chopped away, its slimy brain dripping onto the ground. No, it did not shame a man to respect the terrible power of a troll.

  ‘No,’ Einarr replied. ‘I have seen many trolls and none that I have seen have had the discipline for such a hunt. Their minds wander easily, a troll would not stalk prey for days on end.’ The Norscan turned and looked into the trees. He thought he could catch the slightest suggestion of movement, but could not be certain.

  ‘The beast-kin might hunt a man,’ Vallac said. ‘But those of my land lack the patience to stalk what they cannot overwhelm and kill.’

  Einarr nodded. ‘It is the same here in Norsca. The gors rarely follow prey for any great time. As you say, they either overwhelm their quarry as soon as they are able, or they find easier prey.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Vallac answered, ‘I cannot shake the feeling that it will soon tire of this game. When that happens, our steel had best be sharp.’

  The attack came when the dim twilight at last faded into true night. Einarr had broken camp, trudging on into the north, bound for the villages of the Aeslings, to reap such bloody harvest from his ancestral enemies as he might before his spirit went to walk with its ancestors. Vallac followed close beside him, his shaggy Kurgan horse keeping easy pace with Einarr’s long strides. The old game trail they travelled followed the contour of the land, rising and falling with each slope and valley, winding around each outcrop of twisted grey rock. It was as the trail circled one of these outcroppings that the nameless thing that had been stalking them for days decided to strike.