by Warhammer
Von Kammler thrust his steel arm skyward once more. ‘I have unlocked the gates of Skoroth’s palace!’ he bellowed, triumph booming in his voice. ‘Behold! They come!’
Descending from the rotting sky were things of nightmare and madness. At first they looked like flickering lights, falling stars that changed colour with each passing breath. As they fell towards the quivering ground, substance could be seen within the shimmering light. What was within the light had mass, but was without shape or form. Einarr could see the rippling substance within the lights twisting and writhing, as though consumed by some inner flame. He had the impression of eyes and fangs, horns and spines, lashing tails and drooling mouths.
Von Kammler strode boldly towards the first of the daemon-lights, stretching his hand towards it. A susurrus of slobbering noises emanated from the thing and it fell still closer to the slimy earth, hovering just above the mud and mire. ‘The stallions of Tzeentch!’ the knight said, his voice quivering with both excitement and fear. Von Kammler lifted his armoured bulk onto the flattened platform that formed the daemon’s back. The thing made wet, hungry noises as it felt the knight’s weight pressing down upon it, but made no move to unseat its rider.
‘This is how you plan to get into the palace!’ The outburst came from Zhardrach, the dwarf perched atop a large stone, unable to decide which he should fear more – the hungry earth or the glowing daemons von Kammler had summoned.
‘They will carry us across the lake,’ von Kammler said. He looked into Einarr’s eyes. ‘There is no other way.’
Biting down on his own fear, Einarr carried Birna to another of the slavering, hellish daemons. The feathered skin that covered its shivering form crumbled into ash as he stepped onto its back, a smell of incense rising from the daemon’s unclean essence. It gibbered at Einarr. Loathing filled him as he realised that mixed into the thing’s lunatic mutterings were mortal words and mortal voices. Thousands of tiny eyes opened up along the daemon’s body, each staring up at him with vile hunger.
The earth continued to quiver, the number of sink-holes increasing along with the speed of their onset. Vallac hurriedly mounted another of the floating discs. Snarling his own distaste, Orgrim pounced onto the back of one of the daemons, his claws sinking deep into its flesh in his attempt to secure a firm hold. Berus glared at the things, making no move to mount one of them.
‘Stay here and die,’ Einarr told him, ‘or be a man and conquer your fear.’ The Kurgan turned his skeletal helm towards Einarr and the Norscan could feel the Kurgan’s hate burning into him. Slowly, heedless of the boiling ground all around him, the berserker strode to one of the daemons.
‘You’d better get moving too,’ Einarr warned Zhardrach. The dwarf stared at the closest of the daemons and shook his head. Then he felt the rock he was on shudder. With a curse, the dwarf scrambled off his refuge. He had barely cleared the boulder before it was sucked down into the slimy earth. With another curse, Zhardrach flung himself at the daemon, hastily climbing onto its scaly back.
No sooner had Zhardrach mounted his ghastly steed than the entire flock of daemons was in motion, shooting up into the sky like flaming arrows. Before Einarr could even begin to consider their dizzying ascent, the daemons changed direction, speeding out across the swamps. The festering morass passed away beneath them faster than the eye could follow. Then they were flying above the banks of the lake, the scum-covered waters slithering against the shore.
As the daemons flew above those foul waters, however, they began to shudder. Einarr could feel them losing speed, feel the strength draining from them. The foul magics of the Plague Lord were weakening their daemon steeds. He risked a look back, watching as one of the riderless discs lost its glow. The daemon’s substance became black with disease and it fell from the sky, sucked down into the noxious embrace of the lake.
The Norscan clutched Birna closer to him, trying not to think what would happen if their own steed were to lose its strength. He turned away from the doom that had claimed the daemon, fixing his eyes on the jagged spire of the palace, watching as it slowly drew nearer. His entire being urged the daemon to fly faster, to close the gap before its own strength failed. Instead, their approach slowed with every heartbeat.
A hideous wail of agony tore Einarr’s eyes from the tower. Behind him, another disc plummeted from the sky, diving into the festering sludge of the lake. As it struck the scummy water, a black cloud rose up from the slime. The cloud flew upwards, driving straight towards them. As the speed of the daemons faltered, that of the cloud increased. Soon Einarr’s ears were filled with a deafening drone, the buzz of a million flies. The hairy, biting things swirled all around as the swarm-cloud engulfed them. Einarr swatted at the abominable vermin, crushing them beneath his fingers, grinding them into paste. But for every one he killed, a hundred more settled upon him, their jaws chewing at his flesh. His shut his eyes against the biting mass of filthy life, struggling to breathe through the carpet of insect life that crawled into his nose and mouth.
Suddenly, a shrill cry rose above even the buzz of the flies. The sound was repeated from nearby, shrieked into the leprous haze by a hundred voices. A few moments later, the crawling mass that coated Einarr was gone, flying from him as quickly as it had come. He dared to open his eyes. Nearby he could see a great flock of pallid vultures tearing at the flies with their beaks and talons even as the gnawing insects threatened to swarm over them. It was a hopeless struggle, but at least they would be free of Nurgle’s flies for a time. He looked at Birna. The huntress smiled weakly back at him, oblivious to the tiny bites that peppered her entire body.
‘I saw the vultures and knew they could help,’ she told him, pointing a shaking finger towards the palace. The structure had drawn much closer now, near enough that he could make out its grotesque details, the polished bone that seemed to form its walls, the iron spikes that peppered its battlements. The rotting meat that shuddered on those spikes, even the most wasted tatters seeming to still cling to some kind of obscene life.
The daemon steeds descended once more, diving towards a great balcony that looked out over the diseased lake. The red, glistening mass looked more like raw muscle than stone or wood. It throbbed with excitement as the daemons flew across it, for a moment it seemed that it would sprout arms and rip them from the sky.
The balcony opened into a great hall, a chamber more colossal even than the ruins they had seen in the swamp. Einarr was struck by tales of sky-titans and their mighty strongholds. Surely no other race could have built with such enormity. Then he noted the leathery floor, the walls that wailed and moaned, the ceiling of dripping foulness, and he knew that no mortals had built this place. Only daemons used living flesh to construct their castles.
The daemon steeds finally stopped in the middle of the hall, hovering above the obscene floor. Einarr forced himself to step down from the daemon’s back, he would be the first of them to set foot in Skoroth’s palace. His boots scuffed against the leathery floor, drawing blood from the bruised flesh.
Slowly, the others dismounted their own steeds, dropping to the rotting, oozing floor. Zhardrach cursed and kicked at the ground as he stumbled away from his steed, sending what looked like the festering stumps of fingers flying across the hall.
Berus glowered at the vile hall, staring at the moaning walls. Scrawny bodies, fused by some vile magic, struggled to free themselves from the walls, begging the berserker to kill them in a hundred tongues. Even Berus looked disgusted, turning away and staring instead at the hovering discs of Tzeentch. There was a fearsome, expectant quality about the ghastly daemons, their hungry eyes burning even more fiercely than before.
Einarr set Birna against the floor, turning to face the others. He set himself for what was coming, reminding himself that it had to be done. There was no other way.
‘They wait for what was promised to them,’ von Kammler said. He turned his head towards Zhardrach. Then Einarr saw the knight’s gaze shift, his eyes fixed upon Birna.
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‘Then they will be cheated!’ Berus roared. The berserker leapt towards von Kammler, his axe crashing against the knight’s arm. The southlander was thrown back, his armour shrieking as its molten blood erupted into the air. Von Kammler drew his mace, moving to block Berus’s next attack, but as he turned to attack the berserker, he was struck again from the side. Vallac’s face sneered at him from above a dripping sword.
Einarr drew Alfwyrm, but wondered if he should help the beleaguered knight. The decision was taken from him as Birna’s hand tugged at his leg. ‘The dwarf,’ she warned. It was already too late, Zhardrach crashed into Einarr, spilling him onto the floor. The dwarf’s powerful arms closed around Einarr’s own, pulling them back. The dwarf planted his boot against Einarr’s neck, crushing his face against the rotting floor, breaking his nose. The floor tore open under the assault, a lattice of dismembered and decayed arms pressing against him.
‘Feed me to daemons!’ the dwarf roared. ‘They tried that in Uzkulak! But Zhardrach is still here!’ Einarr could feel his strength straining against the dwarf’s rage, fighting to keep him from breaking the Norscan’s arms. He felt the dwarf’s spittle slap against his face. The pressure on his neck vanished as Zhardrach lifted his foot. The dwarf glared down at him, boot raised above his head. ‘Been a long time since I went grobi-culling,’ he laughed. ‘Lets see if I can’t cave in that traitorous skull of yours with one stomp!’
Before the murderous kick could smash down into his head, a feral growl rumbled across Einarr. The powerful grip on his arms vanished. Einarr rolled away from the diseased hole in the floor, spitting his revulsion from his mouth. He could see Orgrim, a frenzy of claws and fangs, tearing at Zhardrach, the dwarf’s armour shredding beneath the werewolf’s fury. The jagged knife the dwarf held was wet with Orgrim’s life, but the Aesling renegade did not slacken his assault.
Einarr recovered Alfwyrm from the floor. He looked away from Orgrim’s frenzied attack on Zhardrach, wondering if the werewolf would even be able to tell friend from foe in the grip of such fury. Across the hall, he could see von Kammler still struggling against the two Kurgans. The combined attacks of Vallac and Berus had worn the southlander down, it was not his armour alone that now bled onto the rotten floor.
The knight noticed Einarr watching him. The sight infuriated him and he smashed Vallac to the floor with a brutal blow of his mace. He tried to do the same with Berus, but the berserker leapt from the path of his blow. The burning axe Berus wielded flashed through the gloom, cracking down against von Kammler’s hand. Steel, flesh, and bone parted beneath the blow and von Kammler’s hand fell to the floor, his mace frozen in the now dead hand.
Einarr felt his own hand burn as von Kammler’s was cut from his body. The rune seared into his flesh glowed faintly and Einarr recalled the similar sigil that had marked the knight’s hand. He was not alone in appreciating what the fallen champion had lost. Berus sprang away from the stricken knight as the hovering daemons converged upon him, enveloping von Kammler. With the mark of Tzeentch cut from him, there was nothing to keep the daemons from attacking the man who had dared call them from the Realm of the Gods.
Von Kammler struggled beneath the biting, ripping mass of the daemons, trying to tear himself free. The air grew chill once more, the entire palace shuddering as once again a hole was cleft between the spheres. The lavender clouds billowed around von Kammler and his destroyers as man and daemon were sucked from the world of mortals. Only the knight’s last echoing shriek and his severed hand remained.
Vallac rose from the floor, cradling the wound that dripped from the side of his head. He looked across the hall at Einarr. The two locked eyes for a moment, each man staring into the other’s soul, seeing the indomitable force within the other. From the first, Vallac had never intended to share anything with the Norscan, any more than Einarr would allow the Kurgan to stand between him and what he had been promised.
‘Berus,’ Vallac called to the berserker. ‘Now we deal with the other traitor.’ Berus nodded, turning his skeletal helm toward Einarr. The berserker gestured at him with his axe.
‘Tonight your skull will lie before the Skull Throne,’ Berus promised.
Einarr wiped blood from his face, flinging the droplets at Berus. ‘For one of Kharnath’s butchers, you talk too much.’ The Norscan hefted Alfwyrm in his hand and stalked towards the Kurgan. ‘Let’s make this quick. There are other people I have to kill.’
The berserker roared, hurling himself at Einarr. Before the Kurgan could reach him, however, the entire hall shook, spilling both men to the fleshy floor. For a moment, Einarr thought the hideous daemon steeds had returned, then a sickeningly familiar reek assaulted him.
Turning his head towards the balcony, Einarr saw the opening filled by an enormous shape of festering scales and oozing sores. Bubos’s loathsome eye glared down at him and the dragon threw back her head in a hissing roar of satisfaction.
The huntress had found her prey.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The dragon’s bloated bulk filled the front of the great hall, her rotting skin peeling where the plague beast’s venom had corroded it, her mouth dripping pus where Thognathog’s fist had punched through it. Yet for all her wounds, there was no mistaking the awesome power that still pulsed through her enormous frame. As she moved, her claws ripped through the skin of the floor, bones snapping beneath her tremendous weight.
Every eye focused on the monstrosity. Orgrim looked up from the savaged remains of Zhardrach, snarling at the reptilian behemoth. From the floor, Birna weakly raised her head, eyes wide with terror. Vallac stepped back, his misshapen face turning pale as he met the dragon’s gaze. In the centre of the hall, even the two combatants were compelled to shift their attention from their foe to the even deadlier enemy that now tore her way into the gallery.
Einarr glanced away from the advancing dragon, locking eyes with Berus. The berserker nodded his helmed head.
‘I will see you in the next world, Norscan,’ Berus growled. Without further pause, he tightened his hold on his axe and charged the reptile. Einarr watched the Kurgan for a moment, then turned and rushed at the dragon from the other side. He hoped the tactic would divert the monster’s attention, force her to choose between her foes, allow at least one of them to sink his steel in her diseased bulk. Even as he ran towards Bubos, he knew how desperate such a hope was.
The dragon hesitated, her baleful eye fixing on the blood-mad Kurgan, her lips pulling back from her fangs. Air sizzled against her teeth as she sucked a deep breath into her mighty lungs. She drew her head back, her chest expanding as the malignancy inside her grew. Einarr could almost see the air turning foul with corruption. Like a striking serpent, Bubos’s head shot forward, her jaws gaping wide as she sent a cloud of burning pestilence rushing toward Berus. The berserker dove through the cloud, sparing himself the brunt of its terrible power. The floor behind him bubbled as the fume consumed it, skin dripping away as it was reduced to a greasy slime. The wall behind Berus shrieked in agony as the dragon’s breath struck it, the wasted bodies that formed it shrivelling before Bubos’s pestilence.
The berserker, his armour steaming as it fell from him in molten strips, smashed the edge of his axe into the dragon’s snout, crunching through scale and bone. Bubos’s squirming blood vomited from the wound, bathing Berus in her rancid gore. The Kurgan screamed, his cry a hideous mix of agony and exultation. He clung to his axe, his hands locked in a death-grip around the haft of the weapon. Roaring in her own pain, the dragon reared back, shaking her head, trying to rip Berus free.
Einarr seized the dragon’s distraction, lunging at the reptile, stabbing Alfwyrm into the wound in her neck. Maggots the size of his fist erupted from the newly opened cut, slithering with loathsome life down his blade. Before the Norscan could recover from his shock and disgust, Bubos’s claw slammed into him, hurling him back. The warrior crashed into the wailing wall of flesh, feeling bones crack under the impact. He barely paused to allow the s
parks to fade from his vision before lurching back to his feet. The gods continued to smile on him – none of the bones he had heard snap had been his own.
Looking up, he saw the dragon looming above him. Einarr dove toward the beast’s belly as she brought her clawed foot smashing down. The lattice of arms snapped beneath her brutal attempt to crush the Norscan and Bubos’s enormous body shuddered as she sagged into the hole. Einarr exploited her momentary distress, thrusting upward, exulting as the dragon’s putrid ichor slopped from her veins. Bubos reared back from the attack, the palace shuddering as her bloated immensity surged towards the balcony. Something grey and feral sprang over Einarr, pouncing on the recoiling dragon. Orgrim’s savage claws tore into the reptile’s neck, the spines jutting from his ribs fastening onto her like the spiny legs of a tick.
The dragon’s rage built, her tail lashing about, smashing into walls, cleaving them apart like a butcher’s blade. Her folded wings slapped against her body, the foreclaws trying to pick Orgrim from her neck, to swipe Berus from her snout. The berserker stubbornly defied her attempts to tear him away, but one of the talons struck Orgrim, ripping into the werewolf and throwing him down onto the floor. Einarr saw the Aesling’s leg snap as he struck, bending like a twig beneath the strength of Bubos.
Berus continued to cling to his weapon, striving to rip it free so he could drive it once more into the dragon. The ghastly eye glared at him, the eerie pupils fixed on his defiant frame. The wing talons swiped again and again at him, striving to knock him free, but she could not properly focus her unnatural vision on him, her strikes always aimed too high to connect. The Kurgan snarled at her handicap, spitting at the massive organ even as his armour continued to drip from his limbs. The rage of the Blood God was in him now. If the dragon thought he would simply wilt and die then she knew nothing of Khorne’s power. A crimson light of hate and slaughter began to surround his withering body.