Warriors of the Chaos Wastes - C L Werner

by Warhammer

  ‘Do you think me fool enough to have you at my back in the dark?’ Einarr said.

  Zhardrach clenched one hand into a fist and pressed it against his heart. ‘On my father’s bones, Steelfist, I wouldn’t think of causing you harm.’ The dwarf knew enough about the Norscans to know they found such oaths impressive. One of his own kind would recognise it for the worthless drivel it was. Unfortunately, it seemed that Einarr did too. The warrior took another step towards Zhardrach, a few inches of steel shining as he started to draw his sword.

  Suddenly, the sky darkened and a fell reek came crushing down upon them. None of them needed to look skyward to know that their game of cat and mouse was over. Bubos had found them. The dragon’s seething cry of victory hissed across the swamp.

  Zhardrach sprang forward, pushing Einarr aside, almost spilling himself across the ground in his haste to scramble into the cave. Orgrim hurriedly loped after the fleeing dwarf, von Kammler only a few steps behind him. Einarr turned and hurried to the rock, helping Birna to her feet. The ground shook as he carried her toward the cave, the impact of the dragon’s descent causing the earth to shudder. He glanced over his shoulder to find the beast lunging up from the mire, throwing her bloated bulk towards the cave. The hot filth of the dragon’s breath washed over him as he gained the foetid gloom of the tunnel. Bubos’s jaws filled the mouth of the cave, snapping in frustration as she tried to catch her fleeing prey.

  Whatever relief Einarr might have felt at escaping the dragon vanished as he turned his head back around, the loathsome thing crouched against the wall of the tunnel turning his stomach. The bloated slug-toad wallowed in a slop of its own filth, hand-like tentacles wrapped around greasy bones it slavered over with a wet, bubbling orifice. As the bubbling mucus touched the bones, Einarr could see fragments of sinew and marrow dissolve and be sucked back into the abomination’s ghastly mouth. Putrid eyes on a crown of fleshy stalks spread from the top of the thing’s head to watch its mouth feed.

  ‘Tzeentch smiles on us, Steelfist,’ von Kammler said. ‘The thing has already found prey.’

  They began to circle around the feeding daemon, all eyes locked on the loathsome sight, every breath held for fear it might disturb the beast. For some reason, Einarr felt his gaze drawn away from the daemon, drawn to the pile of bones it slobbered over. Shock gripped him as he saw the wet, gleaming skull, the stone rune eye set into its forehead.

  ‘Urda,’ he gasped. As he recognised the skull, a mad impulse pounded through his mind, an obsession to take the rune eye from the feeding daemon. Einarr tried to fight the insane urge, but it was all he could do to resist it long enough to hand Birna over to von Kammler.

  ‘Have you gone crazy, barbarian?’ the knight hissed.

  Einarr shook him off, stalking towards the bloated plague beast. He could see the piled tatters of Urda’s clothes and possessions lying beside the bones.

  ‘The witch’s bag,’ he whispered. ‘There may be something in it we can use.’ The words sounded hollow even to him. He crept closer to the feeding daemon. Its moist, glistening hide oozed and bubbled only inches from him as he reached for Urda’s bag. He held his breath as he lifted it from the pile of bloodied rags. One of the thing’s eye stalks twisted slightly at the sound, but it remained content to drool on Urda’s femur.

  Sweat beaded Einarr’s brow as he reached for the skull, unable to deny the urge that had now overwhelmed him. The mark of Tchar glowed faintly as his fingers pressed against the slimy skull, crushing the brittle bone and pulling the rune eye from its socket.

  With his prize clenched in his fist, Einarr pulled back, recoiling from the daemon’s repugnant presence. But it was already too late. In reaching for the skull, he’d drawn the plague beast’s notice, its dozens of eye stalks twisting around to consider him with hungry idiocy. For a moment, man and daemon stared at one another, then a foam of mucus bubbled from the excited beast’s gash-like mouth.

  Einarr backed away from the daemon, stomach churning as it slithered across the muck of the tunnel towards him. He realised now the terrible position his mad impulse had put him in. At his back was the mouth of the cave and the dragon. Before him, blocking his path, was the gibbering toad-worm. Beyond the daemon he could see von Kammler carrying Birna down the tunnel, herding Zhardrach before him. Orgrim lingered behind, his instinct to flee warring with his loyalty to the warrior.

  Einarr slashed Alfwyrm against the plague beast’s slimy hide, but the rubbery flesh was thicker than whale blubber, the keen blade unable even to scratch it. For its part, the daemon took no offence at the attack, simply continuing to crawl and drool. Einarr backed away still further, giving ground before the bloated thing.

  A whining howl from Orgrim was the only warning Einarr had. How he understood the import of that mournful, bestial cry, he could not say, but the werewolf’s howl created an image in his mind as vivid as that of any words. He threw himself to the left as a great scaly claw smashed through the mouth of the cave. Unable to force her head down the tunnel, Bubos had relented and was now trying to paw her prey back into the open, like a bear picking grubs from a rotten log.

  The scaly member smashed into the muddy floor of the tunnel, the talons leaving deep furrows behind as the dragon pulled her leg back. Without Orgrim’s warning, more than mud would have been crushed beneath her paw. Einarr did not have time to consider the morbid thought. The daemon continued to ooze towards him, its eyes fixed on the inviting lure of his warm flesh. Between the dragon’s claws and the daemon’s corrosive maw, there was little to choose.

  An idea came to him as he turned to face the dragon. Perhaps this was another unpleasant choice he didn’t have to make. Keeping one eye on the daemon’s slithering approach, Einarr waved his arms, shouting at the reptilian behemoth crouched beyond the cave. He saw the dragon’s eye glare at him from outside. Behind him, the slobbering plague beast drew closer.

  Throwing himself violently against the wall of the tunnel, Einarr flattened his body as the dragon’s immense claw shot past him into the cave. The gigantic talons smashed down into the daemon’s quivering bulk. Bubos hissed with anger as her scales sizzled where the plague beast’s corrosive drool touched them. She drew her claw back, dragging the daemon with it, pulling the slobbering idiot thing into the unclean light of the swamp.

  Einarr did not linger to listen to the sounds of battle as Bubos discovered just what she had dragged from the cave and it discovered her. Whichever won, dragon or daemon, he did not want to stay around to welcome the victor’s attentions. Sprinting down the tunnel, he joined Orgrim and together they hurried after von Kammler and the others.

  As he ran, Einarr’s hands played with the necklace around his throat, his fingers deftly working a new talisman onto it, Urda’s rune eye joining Thognathog’s decayed finger.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Not far from the scum-covered waters of the lake, amid a tangle of reeds and weeds, a small pile of boulders rose up from the muddy earth. Almost completely covered in slime and moss, the stones were all but invisible to an observer until he was nearly standing right on top of them. The gaping hole that wormed its way through the rocks was even more hidden, a black fissure that stabbed down into the dank earth beneath the swamp. Roots and brambles covered the opening, concealing it from even the most careful scrutiny. Yet the path had been found once before, and it had been found again. Hairy grey paws clawed at the curtain of roots, tearing them aside and exposing the mouth of the hole. Wolfish eyes blinked at the harsh light of the sickly sun, trying to adjust after the darkness of the tunnel.

  His canine muzzle sniffing at the noxious air, Orgrim crept from the black pit. The werewolf’s feral eyes scanned the putrescent sky, watching for any sign of the dragon. After a few tense moments he turned and snarled at the pit. In response, a muck covered hand closed about the lip of the defile. Einarr strained against the slippery sides of the hole as he lifted Birna from the pit. Beside him, von Kammler had a much easier time extracting hims
elf from the hole, despite his armour and the weight of Zhardrach thrown across his shoulder. The knight’s display of strength and vitality was not lost on Einarr.

  All through the slimy tunnels of the plague beast, Einarr had watched von Kammler with a wary caution. Of them all, it was the southlander who was in the best shape. Einarr knew the knight had his own reasons for coming to this place. If the knight was contemplating treachery, he would do so soon.

  The knight dropped Zhardrach into the mud, snapping his fingers and motioning for Orgrim to keep an eye on the dwarf. Then the southlander bent back towards the pit. His steel mask glowered down at Einarr for a moment, then his armoured hands were reaching down and helping him lift Birna from the hole. The huntress groaned as she collapsed into the mud, unable to stand without von Kammler’s support. He pulled at her leg, twisting it around to study the ragged wound that ran through it. Black worms squirmed through the meat, pus dripping from the crimson boils that surrounded it. The knight shook his head.

  ‘She belongs to the plague god now,’ von Kammler’s chilly voice declared. ‘It will not be long before he claims her.’

  With a surge of strength, Einarr sprang from the pit, fighting his own feelings of fatigue and despair to stay on his own feet as he gained the surface. The Norscan knelt beside the stricken huntress, putting himself between von Kammler and Birna. He reached his hand to brush the damp hair from her forehead. He felt a wave of rage and disgust flood through him. Even now the gods were still changing her, making her into a cruel mockery. Birna’s face had become an almost perfect mirror of Asta’s, even the expression that suffered beneath her fever was Asta’s. Red hate routed the despair that gnawed at his strength. Einarr felt his hand close around the hilt of Alfwyrm. He suddenly realised that his back was to von Kammler. Let the knight make his move now, he thought. I need something to kill.

  ‘Your woman will die soon, Steelfist,’ von Kammler said. ‘But she may still be of use to us.’

  Einarr looked away from Birna to glare at the southlander. ‘There is no need for that,’ he growled. Whatever expression the knight wore behind his mask, there was no mistaking the menace and assumed authority when he spoke.

  ‘The dwarf can fight, she cannot,’ von Kammler said. ‘She is useless to us and will only slow us down. My way, she will still help us.’ The expression on Einarr’s face darkened. He could feel the grip of Alfwyrm pressing into his palm as his hand tightened around it. Von Kammler’s stance remained casual, as though the knight were unaware or unconcerned that the Norscan was a heartbeat from driving his blade into the southlander’s chest.

  Einarr’s hold on Alfwyrm relaxed as he suddenly realised von Kammler was right to be unafraid. Without the knight, they would never be able to cross the lake and reach the palace. Without the knight, he would never seize the treasure Tchar demanded, never claim the reward he had been promised. He looked down at the sick woman lying beside him, Asta’s face looking back up at him. If he failed now, everything would be lost. All their struggles, all their ordeals would mean nothing. He could still prevail, still set everything right. That was the only glory he was interested in – to undo everything he had done.

  Von Kammler nodded his armoured head. ‘We are agreed then, Norscan?’ the knight’s grim voice hissed.

  Before Einarr could force an answer to his lips, Orgrim spun about, glaring at the wall of dead weeds and twisted trees that rose behind them. The werewolf’s hair bristled as an angry growl rumbled from his throat. The weeds parted and two familiar figures strode into the soggy clearing. Vallac made a placating gesture with his hand, trying to appease Orgrim’s agitation. Beside him, the hulking Berus glared at von Kammler.

  ‘Lord Tzeentch be praised!’ Vallac shouted. ‘We are not the only ones to escape the dragon!’

  Einarr shifted his gaze from the sinister knight to the pair of Kurgan warriors. He knew he should feel relief to see them, that their strength would be a great asset assaulting the halls of the Plague Lord. Instead, a black dread coursed through his body, a fell premonition of doom. ‘We have eluded the dragon, for now,’ Einarr told Vallac, every word fighting past the wary caution that filled him. He raised his hand to the band around his neck, his finger brushing against the stone eye fastened there. ‘Urda was not so fortunate,’ he said. The smile that teased the corners of Vallac’s twisted face told Einarr that however the witch had died, it had not been without the Kurgan’s help.

  ‘There are others who should not be fortunate,’ Berus snarled. The berserker hefted his axe, glaring straight into von Kammler’s smouldering eyes. Einarr leapt to his feet, ripping Alfwyrm from its sheath. Orgrim began to prowl around the two Kurgans, his hackles raised. Vallac placed a restraining hand against the berserker’s chest. Berus turned his head, glowering at the other Kurgan. For a moment, it seemed he would bury his axe in Vallac before confronting von Kammler.

  ‘The southlander is still important to us,’ Vallac reminded Berus. ‘After Skoroth has been dealt with, after the prize is ours, then you can take his skull for Khorne.’ Berus looked unconvinced, but slowly he lowered his axe.

  ‘After the Plague Lord is dead,’ he warned von Kammler. The knight simply nodded.

  ‘I would not stand between a fool and his folly,’ he said.

  Vallac strode across the clearing, leaving the brooding Berus to his own bloody thoughts. He stepped towards Einarr, hesitating when he saw that the Norscan had not lowered his sword. The Kurgan shifted his attention away from Einarr, looking down at Birna. He shook his head.

  ‘The southlander is right,’ Vallac said. ‘Your woman is already gone. She will only slow us down.’ He tapped the curved sword at his side. ‘I can do it, if you like.’ There was no malice in Vallac’s offer, rather it was spoken in a humble, conciliatory tone. To the practical view of the Kurgan, there was no appreciation of repugnance in a deed that had to be done.

  ‘She will live,’ Einarr growled back. He lowered his sword. With his other hand, he pulled the torn remains of Urda’s bag from his belt.

  ‘There is no help in there,’ Vallac said. ‘The witch used it all to keep herself going.’

  Einarr crushed the ripped bag in his hands and dropped it into the mud.

  ‘She has to die now, Steelfist,’ Vallac persisted. ‘Otherwise her spirit will belong to the plague god.’

  ‘No,’ Einarr said, the word dripping from his tongue like venom. He reached beneath his bear-skin cloak, removing Spjall’s medicine bag. They’d used almost everything to fend off the sickness of the Plague Lord’s realm, but there was still something left. Einarr’s hand closed around a small bundle of wet, stick-like roots wrapped in sealskin. Vallac’s brow knitted as he watched Einarr remove the sticks, grinding them between his hands until they were reduced to a dripping pulp that looked more like blood than anything else.

  ‘An old Norse remedy,’ Einarr told Vallac. The Kurgan’s expression remained dubious, but he watched with intense interest as Einarr lifted Birna’s head and poured the pulp into her mouth. With effort, the huntress swallowed the paste. ‘She will not die.’

  Einarr heard the words of his lie dance through the swamp, the hollow echoes mocking him as they faded into nothing. He’d done nothing to help Birna, she would thrive or fade at the whim of the plague god. What he had given her was bloodroot, a terrible herb known to the vitkis of the Norse. There was strength in bloodroot, but there was no healing within it. Under its effects, a man would feel strength flood back through his body even as life faded from it. Einarr had seen warriors fighting with missing arms and collapsed chests under the effect of bloodroot. He’d seen reavers rowing longships back from a raid with their innards spilling from their split bellies. Bloodroot was a thing of death, not of life. It was also the last thing he had to offer Birna.

  Von Kammler watched Einarr minister to the huntress, then turned and looked up into the sky. The knight raised his arms to the leprous heavens, sibilant notes rasping from behind his mask as he called ou
t to the Realm of Chaos and the forces beyond. The air grew colder, the weeds about the knight’s feet shivering as they sprouted new and ghastly growths. A keening wail throbbed above them and even Einarr’s eyes were drawn skyward as the leprous tapestry was torn by a pulsating glow of violet and azure. Lightning flashed behind the tear in the sky, lavender clouds spilling through the rupture. The ground shuddered, quivering violently as an undulating earthquake rocked the festering domain. A fierce, silent wind tore through the realm, snapping trees and uprooting weeds as the stagnant air swirled madly across the land. Splotches of pallid putrescence sprouted throughout the leprous sky, like voracious growths of mould.

  Einarr held Birna close to him, fighting to rise as the ground quivered beneath them. Orgrim pressed his belly into the mud, howling wildly as his animal instincts were overcome by the awful sorcery pulsing all around them. Berus threw himself from the path of a tree as it crashed into the clearing, its withered bark splitting as organ-like growths of shimmering fungus erupted from it. Vallac abased himself, wailing in his savage language, shrieking the glories of Tzeentch to the heavens.

  Then von Kammler lowered his arms and fell silent. As quickly as it had formed, the tear in the sky collapsed upon itself. The silent wind died away, the stagnant air as heavy and humid as ever. The ground, however, continued to tremble, but not with the rolling undulations of an earthquake. The earth pulsed and heaved, bubbling like boiling soup. The ground burst in muddy explosions, showering the warband in filth. Sink-holes opened and closed all around them, sucking trees and rocks down into the blackness beneath the domain. Narrowly, Einarr avoided being sucked down into one of the holes, some sixth sense urging him to leap the instant before the ground beneath him collapsed.

  ‘What have you done, southlander?’ Einarr roared as he recovered from his near escape, checking to see that the violent motion had not further harmed the woman he held in his arms.