by Warhammer
The daemon’s clawed hand stretched down towards Einarr, shimmering light growing from the centre of its palm…
EPILOGUE
A savage war cry exploded from Einarr as he hurled himself at the beast. His axe chopped into one of the abomination’s flailing tentacles, severing it from its body. The mast-like column of flesh crashed to the ground, narrowly missing the enraged axeman. Before his very eyes, it corroded into a stagnant heap of scarlet mush. The beast coughed and croaked with what Einarr hoped was pain and took a swipe at him with one of its enormous paws. Einarr dodged the blow, striking out at the malformed limb as it passed him, the edge of his axe chewing into the back of its foremost talon. The beast coughed again and lashed out once more, this time with a pair of tentacles. Only by dragging every ounce of speed from his body was the warrior able to dance between the flailing limbs. The beast reared back once more, blood dripping from its fanged muzzle.
‘Follow me, you blood-worm filth!’ Einarr screamed at the thing. ‘I am what you came for!’ Einarr jumped back as the monster struck at him with one of its panther-like paws. He waited for the thing to surge towards him. For a moment, the monster’s multitude of eyes stared at him. Then the moment passed. It swung its trunk-like neck around, closing its jaws around the shrieking body of a mangled reaver. Einarr stood in stunned horror as the beast shuddered back across the garth, towards the warriors assembled on the other side of the village.
With a cry of despair, Einarr raced back across the garth and flung himself at the beast. He crashed against its slimy back, chopping frenziedly into its gore-drenched skin. Sizzling gore splattered across him, but still he hacked and tore into the thing. The burning blood seared his hands, his skin coming off in scabby strips as he tried to maintain his hold upon his axe. He saw the screaming, accusing faces of his kinsmen and his neighbours locked within the beast’s blood.
Through eyes clouded with blood, through a haze of madness and fury, Einarr watched his past self chop and slash at the bloodbeast. He tried to hold the monster back, tried to stay its murderous claws, but his efforts were as futile as his attempts to turn the beast back as it slithered toward the village. His was but one soul among many trapped within the bloodbeast’s body, one voice among the screaming throng that tried to command the brute’s formless mass. The spite and hate and psychopathic rage of the others was too much for him to overcome, the legion arrayed against him too vast to conquer. He could only watch as events unfolded, following the pattern he had struggled so vainly to break. He pressed against the flesh of the bloodbeast, struggling to warn his past self, to warn the man that had been Einarr about the treachery of hope and the lying tongues of daemons.
Einarr felt the flesh of the bloodbeast bubble and change as he strove against it, the gory hide transforming into the rude semblance of his own features. Tears of blood bubbled from his eyes, his mouth moving in silent cries of warning to his past self, desperately striving to make the man he was turn back before it was too late.
The axeman slashed the blade of his weapon deep into the bloodbeast’s blubbery hide. Steaming blood cascaded from the wound, showering Einarr in scalding liquid. The warrior ground his teeth against the pain and raised his axe for another blow.
For an instant he froze, mesmerised by the image of one of the shrieking faces that bubbled up from the monster’s wounds. The face seemed almost to be his own, locked in some nameless, unspeakable torment, screaming in limitless agony.
Einarr tore his eyes from the shrieking soul, forcing himself to plunge his axe once again into the bloodbeast’s vile flesh. He did not see the crimson tears spilling from the eyes of the tiny face as damnation consumed its last, fragile hope.
In the sky above, a gaunt black eagle circled and croaked with amusement as it watched slaughter consume Vinnskor. The eagle’s talons were wet with blood and clutched in its claws was a throbbing, pulsing heart. Its laughter drifted down to the carnage, its mocking notes dripping from the sky like burning rain. The bloodbeast raised its misshapen trunk, trying to find the source of such caustic notes. The eagle laughed again and gradually flew away into the darkening gloom, abandoning the village and its would-be saviour to their fate. Slowly the daemon faded from the star-swept sky, vanishing back into its own terrible realm to bear its prize to its master.
BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD
PROLOGUE
The stink of blood and death was thick upon the plain. A crimson light tainted the sky, turning the midday sun into a smouldering ember behind the unnatural haze. Overhead, the croaking of vultures drifted down, like the impatient muttering of daemons. Again and again the carrion birds circled, never descending, never departing. The reek of death had drawn them from their gruesome rookeries, to linger until they had filled their scrawny frames with their hideous repast.
A man stood upon a small hill, little more than a jagged pile of rocks cast down by the craggy mountains beyond the plain. Like the vultures, he waited, waited for the sounds to fade: the warriors’ din of crashing steel and the screams of dying men. Unlike the vultures, he did not listen to the clamour with a mind greedy with hunger. He was no scavenger, no slinking jackal preying upon the leavings of true predators. The man stood with a pride alien to scavengers and ghouls. His frame was straight and tall, his limbs corded with iron-knots of muscle, his chest swollen with strength. Armour of lacquered bone and boiled leather was fastened around his powerful body, blackened with soot to match the braided scalp-locks that dripped from beneath his gold-masked helm.
A nest of spikes protruded from the rim of the helm, stabbing up at the crimson sky. Crafted from ruby, adorned in jade and obsidian, the crown that circled the daemon-masked helm was more than the affectation of a primitive savage, the boast of a barbarous warlord. It was a talisman of power, a display of authority and might. It was the heraldry of a king, and each of the spikes that jutted from its band betokened one who had stood against its wearer and been cut down by his sword.
It was whispered that no mortal had crafted that crown, that it had come from the Realm of the Gods, that each time another fell to its wearer it was no artisan who placed a new spike of ruby upon the king’s brow, but rather that the crown grew a new blood-thorn to commemorate the deed.
Terror of the Blood-Crown had spread through the Shadowlands, passing in frightened mutterings between the horse-clans of the Hung, the nomad tribes of the Kurgan and the warherds of the beastkin. The name of he who wore it had become a curse on the tongues of a dozen races: Teiyogtei Khagan, the ‘glorious king’ of the Tsavag. Unlike the khagans, who had led the warhosts of the Tong in the past, exploding into the Shadowlands in a storm of slaughter and pillage, Teiyogtei had not led his people back into the forbidden vastness of the Chaos Wastes. The king had remained, and with him the Tsavag, the most vicious tribe to ever emerge from the forsaken realm of the Tong.
Teiyogtei’s eyes closed in thought behind the snarling mask of his helm. He saw again the bloody dream that had drawn him out of the Wastes, into a land where the breath of the gods was a calm breeze rather than a raging tempest. Here, the bloody dream had been cast aside, old oaths and pacts forgotten. Here, a new dream had been forged, cast in the iron of Teiyogtei’s indomitable will, not the dream of endless slaughter but the vision of timeless empire. By his might, by his power, Teiyogtei had conquered the plains and bound the steppes to him with chains of terror. Now it was not only the Tong who swore allegiance to him, but tribes of Kurgan, Hung and beastkin.
Other warlords had forged such warhosts, great hordes as vast as the horizon. They had squandered their power in campaigns of carnage, spending their strength in the vainglorious effort to appease the ever hungry gods. Teiyogtei had a different vision. He saw a land crushed in his iron fist. He saw castles and fortresses rising from the dust of the steppes, mines stabbing into the deeps of the mountains, fields exploding across the forsaken plains. He saw a land reforged in his own image, a domain that would become stronger than the steel that built
it. This would be his glory, his legacy, not the empty quest to please the capricious gods, his name forgotten in the murk of time. The domain he built would endure long after he was gone, and through it his legacy would outlast the gods. He had forged powerful alliances with the strongest tribes, gifting their chieftains with mighty daemon weapons in exchange for their oaths of blood and loyalty. His was an army such as the Shadowlands had never seen, the horde of a conqueror, the horde of a king.
The roar of battle drew nearer. Teiyogtei’s eyes snapped open, his armoured hand closing around the sword at his side. With a shrill hiss, he drew the blade from its scabbard of flesh, the flayed husk of Teiyogtei’s first victim. The sword burned like scarlet fire in his hand, fat and crooked, a ripple of lightning captured in crimson steel. Teiyogtei felt himself being drawn into the flickering embers that burned within the blade. The khagan pulled his eyes away, sneering at the greedy malice of the Bloodeater. The blade had feasted upon many souls since the hour it had been forged, but it would never taste that of Teiyogtei.
The warlord stroked the sharp edge, letting it scrape against the iron of his gloves, teasing the weapon’s malignancy with the nearness of his blood. Angered, the Bloodeater would be even deadlier in battle, eager to feed its frustration with death and ruin. Teiyogtei wanted the weapon at its most malevolent. He feared that the battle to come would test its hostility to the full.
A choking death rattle rose sharply from the crimson mist. A hulking shape, little more than a shadow through the curtain of gory fog, pitched and fell, its head rolling free from its shoulders. Dimly, through the veil of mist, Teiyogtei could see mangled heaps of flesh strewn across the ground, scarcely human in their butchered ruin, piled in heaps of broken bones and severed limbs. Amid the wreckage, he could see a handful of warriors still standing, stubbornly refusing to abandon the fight. Two scarred Kurgan warriors lunged deeper into the crimson murk, monstrous axes clenched firmly in their fists. A breath later, Teiyogtei heard their screams, heard the sound of sizzling flesh and the liquid splash of blood upon earth. The khagan dared to glance down at the Bloodeater, reassured to find that its fires burned steadily, a visible token of its smouldering fury.
‘What has come for you can be vanquished, but never destroyed.’ Those had been the words the old Tsavag shaman had muttered as he looked up from the puddled entrails of his sacrifice. A warning from the gods? A threat? No, Teiyogtei had taken it as a challenge. He knew which of the dark gods had sent this creature to ravage his domain. He knew that it would not relent until he had faced it in combat.
‘Vanquished, but never destroyed.’ Teiyogtei sneered at the prophecy. The shaman had paid for his cryptic words, his skull smashed beneath the foot of a Tsavag war mammoth. A man made his own destiny. He did not need the riddles of the gods to lead him astray. Man, monster or daemon, Teiyogtei had yet to encounter anything that could survive the Bloodeater’s ravenous bite.
The clamour of battle faded into a metal echo, only the moans of the dying and the croaking vultures disturbing the silence. The crimson mist swelled, billowing as though moved by an unfelt wind. The rolling curtain stretched towards the hill where Teiyogtei stood alone.
The khagan had forbidden any of his followers to stand with him. Whatever creature had crawled down into his domain from the Wastes, he would face it alone. If he was victorious, it would reaffirm his might in the eyes of his chieftains, bind them all the more to his will. If he fell, it would not matter if a thousand fell with him. Teiyogtei allowed only the four hundred Kurgan who stood beneath the hill to stand against the beast. If four hundred could not stop the monster, no number of mortal warriors and mortal blades would. Teiyogtei would not squander the strength of his horde in useless conflict. It would matter little if he destroyed the monster at the expense of his army. No, if the horde was broken, death upon the creature’s blade would be only too welcome.
The Skulltaker, that was the name the thing had been given, the title it wore in the nightmares of sorcerers and seers: a harbinger of Khorne, the Blood God’s chosen executioner. It had left a trail of destruction across Teiyogtei’s realm, empty villages and broken castles. The khagan’s realm was threatened, not by the Skulltaker, but by the terror that he brought with him. If Teiyogtei were to maintain his rule, he could allow his people to fear nothing more than they feared their king.
At the base of the hill, the crimson mist rolled back, retreating as though pulled away by spectral steeds. As the mist retreated, a lone figure stood revealed beneath the baleful sky. Teiyogtei was surprised to see that his adversary was no daemon, no misshapen monster from the pits of the Wastes. The figure that stood below was that of a man, but such a man as even the khagan had never faced before. Tall, bulky, his body was covered in plates of steel, stained the hue of old blood, a tattered cloak of daemon fur spilling down his back, his head unseen behind a skull-faced helm of iron. Great antlers rose from either side of the helm, jagged horns of bronze, each forming one part of the skull-rune of Khorne. Beside the malice Teiyogtei could feel emanating from the lone warrior, even the fury of the Bloodeater seemed a feeble thing.
The king tried to stare into the skull-faced mask, to see the man behind the iron, but only shadow returned his gaze. A twinge of fear worked through the warlord’s body. This, he knew, was the Skulltaker, and for the first time he truly wondered if his foe could be destroyed. Could anything overcome such pure, raw hatred?
The Skulltaker was still for a moment, letting his enemy take his measure. Then, slowly, his head lifted, staring back at Teiyogtei. The warrior’s voice growled from behind his mask, a sound like steel scraping against bone.
‘Doom,’ the Skulltaker proclaimed. ‘Doom has come to the betrayers.’ The warrior raised his weapon, a thick blade with jagged, cruel edges, as black as a shard of midnight. Teiyogtei could see faces screaming beneath the black skin of the weapon, writhing in torment within the blade that had consumed their souls. The khagan looked down at his own sword, a new doubt working into his mind. There was a kinship between these weapons, but that could not be. Neither man nor daemon could have forged another such blade.
Teiyogtei bit down on his fears. He was Teiyogtei Khagan, the greatest warlord to rise from the Tong, the mightiest people the world would ever know. No foe had ever bested him in battle, no foe ever would. Men could break their promises, but the word of a god was eternal. Whatever he was, whatever had sent him, the Skulltaker would fall before the Bloodeater and become another thorn upon the Blood-Crown.
‘Doom?’ Teiyogtei sneered. ‘I fear no doom. You think to bring me death? Know that Teiyogtei Khagan cannot fall in battle! The Blood God’s oath protects me, and he will not revoke his word when it is given! Doom?’ The king laughed at his silent foe. ‘It is your doom that is come, wretch! The terror of the Skulltaker ends here upon my Bloodeater!’
The khagan’s words had scarcely been uttered when his enemy sprang into motion. With a speed that Teiyogtei would have believed impossible, the armoured warrior charged up the side of the hill, the Skulltaker’s boots gouging into the rock like claws of steel. Teiyogtei sprang to meet the warrior’s attack, the Bloodeater flashing out in a fiery arc only to crash against the blackened edge of the Skulltaker’s weapon. The king’s arm shuddered from the impact, his bones trembling. He recoiled instinctively and the Skulltaker was swift to seize upon his weakness. An iron shoulder crashed against Teiyogtei’s chest, throwing him back, only the king’s amazing reflexes preventing him from collapsing to the ground.
The black sword slashed out at the reeling king, and as it swept through the air the wailing voices of those trapped within clawed at Teiyogtei’s mind. More by instinct than thought, he parried the strike, his bones again shuddering as red blade met black. The two swords were frozen, locked against one another as the two fighters struggled to break each other’s hold. At length, Teiyogtei felt his strength begin to ebb, felt the Skulltaker’s incredible power start to prevail. The king brought his boot cracking int
o the Skulltaker’s knee, trying to spill his foe to the ground. The warrior’s leg barely registered the brutal impact that would have snapped the bone of a lesser man.
Teiyogtei’s tactic did serve its purpose, however. For an instant, the Skulltaker’s attention was distracted, and in that instant, the king freed the Bloodeater, leaping back before the Skulltaker could retaliate. The iron-helmed warrior lashed out at the khagan, the point of his black sword scraping against the lacquer armour. Red smoke rose from the cut, and Teiyogtei’s nose filled with the sickening stink of the vapour. He did not like to think what havoc even a small cut from the weapon might work should it sink into flesh. Again, the unfamiliar spectre of fear screamed through his mind.
As though smelling his foe’s fear, the Skulltaker struck again, driving his black blade at Teiyogtei from the side. The king hurried to block the attack, but the Bloodeater was caught at an awkward angle, trapped between the Skulltaker’s black blade and his own body. He struggled to fend off the warrior’s immense strength, but the angle of his weapon conspired against him, threatening to snap his arm with the effort. Teiyogtei roared in pain as the lacquer plates began to split beneath the Bloodeater, as his own blade began to gouge into his flesh.
Fuelled by the intense agony, Teiyogtei drew upon the last of his strength. Howling like a beast, the khagan ripped the Bloodeater from his own body, beating back the Skulltaker’s sword. Ropes of gore drooled from the gouge in his side, but the king had not the breath to spare to consider his grisly wound. The Skulltaker was already moving to attack the weakened king, slashing at the khagan’s neck. Teiyogtei ducked under the wound, driving the Bloodeater into the Skulltaker’s belly.
He pressed the sword home, deep and hard, only relenting when he felt it erupt from the warrior’s back. Only then did Teiyogtei give thought to the quivering pain that wracked his body.