by Warhammer
CHAPTER SIX
There was a cruel smile on Zar Csaba Daemontamer’s face as he rode away from Teiyogtei’s hill. A plan had occurred to the Kurgan chieftain as he listened to the other chieftains squabble. He had lost no time abandoning the bickering council, hurrying back to where his riders waited for him to return. With indecent haste, they lashed their tall, powerful stallions to their best effort, hurrying through the narrow passes between the mountains.
It was not fear of attack that filled Csaba with such urgency, but the opportunity that fired his mind. He did not believe Enek Zjarr’s outlandish claims that the Skulltaker had killed Lok for an instant, even if the Tong fool Hutga had been taken in by the sorcerer. Something had clearly happened to the Muhak zar, however. He would never have sent minions to the gathering. Whatever devilry Enek Zjarr had worked with his black magic, Csaba was certain of one thing: the Muhak were weak, weaker perhaps than they had ever been. Without their chieftain they were vulnerable and ripe for conquest: sheep waiting for the wolves.
Csaba licked his lips as he imagined his riders sweeping down on the Muhak villages, enslaving the muscle-bound oafs before they even knew they were under attack. With the strength of the Muhak his to command, with their lands added to his own, the Gahhuk would become a major force in the domain, equal to the mighty Vaan and the mammoth-riding Tsavags.
He would use that strength, use it to annihilate the filthy Seifan. No more would the Hung raid his lands, stealing women and cattle. They would be broken upon the blades of the Gahhuk host.
The bloody visions that filled Csaba’s mind turned sour when he reflected that others at the council could not have failed to see the same opportunities that he had seen. The Vaan were too far away to act quickly, for there were few horsemen among the great army that Ratha commanded.
Nhaa and his warherd were bound to the Grey, twisted by the ghastly power of their dark home until only the strongest of them could endure the light of the sun for any considerable time. Hutga was convinced that the Skulltaker had killed Lok and he would be preparing his people to ward off the legendary wraith.
Thinking of the Sul gave Csaba pause. Who could say what sinister plot the damnable sorcerers were unfolding?
The mind of a Hung was crooked enough, but when it was further twisted by the dark arts it became a maze that no one could travel. Perhaps Enek Zjarr had somehow orchestrated Lok’s death, perhaps his bold claim that Bleda was dead was also truth rather than deception.
Whatever the Sul were planning, Csaba had no intention of hiding behind the metal walls of his stronghold, Iron Keep, and cowering while he let them work their craft throughout the domain. No, he would strike! The Gahhuks would reap the spoils of the Muhak.
If the Sul had indeed killed Bleda, let them take possession of the Desert of Mirrors and its cursed poxes!
The Seifan were a more tangible threat to the Gahhuk. Their territories bordered the lands of the Muhak, just as Csaba’s did. The Seifan were horsemen like the Gahhuk, boasting scythe-wheeled chariots and fang-toothed steeds that were superior to the rugged stallions bred by the Gahhuks.
Tulka could not fail to see the possibilities presented by the weakness of the Muhak, nor fail to appreciate the consequences of not exploiting them. Yes, Csaba concluded, the real threat lay with Tulka. The Hung kahn would rally his armies to ride against the Muhak as quickly as he could, but Tulka had lingered longer at the council and had farther to travel when he left.
If Csaba was quick, his army would already be in the saddle before Tulka was even within sight of Seifan territory.
Soon, the black horses of the Gahhuks left the mountains behind, racing through the foreboding Vulturewood. A forest with a reputation nearly as fearful as that of the Grey, Vulturewood formed the frontier between the lands of the Muhaks and Gahhuks. The gaunt, scraggly-limbed trees rose like skeletal talons from the spongy, fungus-infested earth, forming an imposing fence between the rival Kurgan tribes. The reedy branches of the trees sagged brokenly towards the ground, bent by the weight of their grisly burdens.
For generations, the two tribes had hung the bodies of their victims in the forest, both to boast of their killings and to frighten their neighbours. The stench of death and decay had sickened the forest, turning it ever fouler and more wretched. The streams had become poisonous trickles of filth that reeked of rotten flesh. The trees had become sick and withered, the smaller plant life perishing altogether.
Only the most vile animals continued to haunt the forest: ravens and jackals, rats and shrikes, and the ever-present vultures with their scabby heads and crooked beaks. Darker things also prowled beneath the corpse-ridden boughs, trolls and worse horrors, things that took abominable sustenance from the carrion fruit dangling from the trees.
Men were lost to the Vulturewood, never to be seen again, but those claimed by the forest had been stupid enough to brave it alone or in small numbers. Csaba did not feel any great menace for his company of riders, twenty strong, armed and wary, mounted upon their rugged warmblood steeds. Beasts and even trolls usually had sense enough to leave such a dangerous band of men alone, finding less dangerous meals to stalk.
Yet, as they penetrated deeper into the forest, Csaba could not shake the uneasy feeling that came over him. It was not sound that caused the tingling of his blood, for he could hear nothing above the croaking cackles of the vultures overhead; it was nothing his eyes had seen, for the thick stands of thin trees blocked vision beyond a few dozen yards; it was nothing he smelled, the decaying reek of the forest overwhelming even a Kurgan’s sense of scent, but there was something, something beyond his senses, something beyond his reason that tugged at him, warning him to flee.
As the horses continued to gallop, the Gahhuks no longer had to urge them to greater speed, but had to fight to maintain control of the animals as they lunged recklessly through the trees. Csaba could see the nervous anxiety on the faces of the men around him, could see the outright fear in the eyes of their steeds. Whatever nameless evil he felt, those around him felt it too. So, it must be more than imagination.
Csaba’s hand dropped to the hilt of his dadao, the huge, fat-bladed bronze sword that was his tribe’s gift from the great khagan Teiyogtei. The daemon-forged weapon felt icy beneath his hand, as though it too felt the threat in the air.
Suddenly, the calls of the vultures were silenced. Csaba looked upwards to see the birds scattering into the sky, abandoning their grisly rookeries for the safety of the heavens. He did not ponder their retreat long, however, for in the ensuing quiet he became aware of a new sound. It was the sound of something large and heavy crashing through the forest.
The noise was loud, but too subdued for the clatter of hooves. Csaba was minded of unshod feet or the padding of immense paws. He wondered if perhaps a troll had decided to try them after all, but knew it was something more dire. A lurking band of Muhak, or riders of the Seifan? The shiver of fear that raced through his body told him otherwise. It was a primal sort of fear, something baser and more primitive than thought, something that struck horror into his soul.
The reek of blood washed over Csaba as he clung to the neck of his plunging horse, overpowering even the carrion stink of Vulturewood. Through the trees, he could see something converging on their path. In shape it was like a wolf, but far larger and with bright crimson-hued fur. A long, barbed tail streamed behind the loping beast and upon its back sat…
Csaba shouted to his men, shouted to his horse. His studded riding whip crashed against the flank of his steed, encouraging it to still greater effort without thought of control and no care if the brute’s heart should burst from the strain. Only speed, only flight had room in the zar’s frantic thoughts.
Csaba did not dare to glance back at what he had seen. One look had been enough to tell him what manner of foe hunted him through the forest. It was enough that his ears told him of the monster’s progress as he pursued the chieftain.
He could hear the screams of horses and the c
ries of his men as the enemy closed upon them, as the smouldering black sword he had seen gripped in the rider’s hand struck and cut them down.
He could smell the blood-stink strengthening as the foe drew ever nearer. The gaunt, twisted trees of the forest flashed past, corpses favouring the Gahhuks with rotten grins as the riders raced onward. The sense of cold, ancient evil clawed at Csaba’s heart, filling his brain with one terrible thought, one ghastly name from the mists of legend: the Skulltaker!
At last, Csaba saw light ahead, a break in the withered forest of Vulturewood. His horse shared his sense of frenzied desperation, plunging through the clawing branches to reach the open plain beyond. The zar gave a savage bark of triumph as relief surged through his body.
Certain that the grim forest would be his doom, feeling the bright sun against his skin struck him as almost miraculous, like the blessing of his savage gods. Around him, other riders broke from the grisly net of the forest, their banners tattered and torn by the jagged, low-hanging branches. Csaba’s dread flared back into life when he saw how few of his men remained. He had drawn his bodyguard from the toughest of his warriors, veterans of countless battles. Twenty had entered the forest with him. Only ten remained.
The chieftain shouted an order to his men, commanding them to rest their flagging steeds. Like their zar, the Gahhuks watched the edge of the forest, eyes trained on the shadowy mass of trees. They tried to tell themselves they watched for any sign of their missing tribesmen, but in truth it was the sinister, armoured rider they looked for.
As seconds stretched into minutes, Csaba began to believe the impossible, that somehow they had lost the Skulltaker in the woods, that perhaps the gruesome warrior was bound to the forest and could not stray from its haunted environs. These desperate hopes were just beginning to secure themselves in Csaba’s mind when a scream, sharp and piercing, rose from the trees.
A horse came galloping from the forest, racing wildly past the resting Gahhuks, its eyes mad with terror. A torn and mangled thing flopped obscenely in its saddle, hacked asunder by a single brutal slash. Csaba and his men were no strangers to violence and savagery, yet they were stunned by the inhuman strength required to render such a blow. A troll might work such carnage upon a body, but certainly not anything human!
One of the Gahhuk warriors gave voice to a piercing cry of alarm, snapping the others from their shock. From the forest, fast on the track of the dead man’s horse came the loping red beast and its ghastly rider. Csaba’s eyes went wide with terror as he felt the Skulltaker’s gaze settle upon him. The zar roared at his men, ordering five of them to ride down the oncoming foe. As they hesitated, Csaba ripped his dadao from its sheath, plunging the fat-blade into the gut of the nearest man. The rider fell from his horse, groaning pitifully as he rolled upon the ground.
The other men needed no further encouragement. Voices raised in trilling war cries, four Gahhuk’s charged the Skulltaker. Csaba lingered long enough to see the foremost close upon the monster, to see the black sword flash at the man, hewing arm and shoulder from the Gahhuk rider in a single savage stroke. The zar did not wait to see how the other three fared. Turning his horse around, he smashed his whip into its flank, spurring it away from the combat, spurring it away from the Skulltaker. The remains of his entourage raced after their fleeing chieftain.
The Iron Keep, Csaba thought, if I can only reach the safety of its walls. This time he risked a look over his shoulder, screaming as he saw the Skulltaker cut down the last of the men he had left to confront his enemy. Already, the wolf-like beast was racing after the Gahhuk riders, eating the dusty plain in long, loping bounds. Ahead, the fastness of the keep was only a small black splotch against the distant hills. The zar despaired as he considered the distance, knowing how far the race must run.
A second look back reassured him. He had seen the chain lashed across the Skulltaker’s chest and the two trophies jangling against his armour as he pursued the chieftain. There was no mistaking the mutated skull of Bleda with its twisted antlers. Csaba knew his fate should the Skulltaker catch him.
Panic cracked the zar’s voice as he ordered two of his guards to break off, to fall back and delay the Skulltaker. A flourish of his fat-bladed sword convinced them, and the two warriors turned their horses. Csaba had no delusions about their chances. He was playing for time, time and distance. If he could hinder the Skulltaker enough, perhaps he might win through.
Once he was behind the walls of his fortress, even the Skulltaker would not be able to reach him. Once behind the walls of his fortress, Csaba would be free to unleash a force no foe could stand against, even if he was the mythic Skulltaker!
The howdah swayed beneath Hutga’s feet as the immense war mammoth made its slow, ponderous way back to the lands of the Tsavag. The khagan’s ivory throne had been removed from his yurt and lashed to the floor of the platform after the custom of his people. Hutga sat there, nestled in his blankets and furs, his metal-studded flesh chilled by the darkening night. His mood was dark and the warriors who had made the long journey to the monolith with him kept their distance, fearing their chieftain’s anger. Only Dorgo and Yorool lingered near the throne, fully aware who it was had provoked Hutga’s temper.
‘Fools!’ the khagan cursed in a spiteful mutter. ‘Blind yapping rats! How can they not see past their jealousies and hates? The whole domain could burn and they wouldn’t lift a finger if it meant helping another’s tribe!’
Dorgo could feel his father’s frustration. His fear had been that he would be unable to make the other tribes believe the Skulltaker had been responsible for Lok’s death. He had hoped that if he could make them understand the dire threat they faced, they would band together against the common foe.
United, perhaps, they would stand a chance against the remorseless killer. Dorgo had dared to share his father’s hope. Now, he knew better. The chieftains were too arrogant, too obsessed with their ambitions to set aside their differences. Making them believe the Skulltaker had returned wasn’t the problem. Making them understand that they could not defeat him on their own was.
‘Csaba is probably already moving on the lands of the Muhak,’ Yorool observed. ‘Now that he knows Lok is gone, the Muhak will be easy prey for his riders. That is, if the Seifan haven’t already invaded the Muhak.’
‘Nhaa will slink back into his forest,’ Hutga considered. ‘That brute will stay there, bide his time and wait for the stink of weakness to reach him. The real threat will be from the Vaan. Ratha won’t worry over Csaba or Tulka, he’ll let them weaken themselves picking over the Muhaks. He knows Nhaa will stay in the Grey for now. No, he’ll see us as the only threat to his ambitions.’
‘What about the Sul?’ Dorgo asked.
Hutga thought around the question for some time. ‘I can’t say what plan moves the Sul. The mind of a Tong is not twisted enough to follow their schemes, but I cannot forget that Enek Zjarr called the council, that he was aware not only of the Skulltaker’s return, but that Lok and Bleda have fallen to him. I think, of them all, the Sul understand the danger that threatens the domain.’
‘So, what will they do about it?’ wondered Yorool. ‘I do not think Enek Zjarr is so foolish as to think the likes of Ratha would ever forgive the past intrigues of the Sul, even when faced by a menace such as the Skulltaker. There is some greater craft behind his gathering the chieftains together.’
‘Aye,’ Hutga agreed. ‘That is one thing upon which I can agree with Ratha. I’d sooner trust the mercy of the Skulltaker than the word of a Sul.’
‘Even if it means the destruction of our people?’ Yorool pressed.
The question gave Hutga pause. Suddenly, he seemed frail and weak in Dorgo’s eyes, weighted down by the burden of his leadership. The khagan shook his head, not liking the paths the question asked him to consider.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hutga said at last. ‘Whatever plot Enek Zjarr had to unite the tribes has failed. We are all left to fend for ourselves. As I see it, we hav
e two choices. We can run, flee the domain and try to escape into the Shadowlands.’
‘That would be a hard journey,’ Dorgo cautioned. ‘The perils of the domain are at least known. Those of the Shadowlands are forever changing. There would be no guarantee of grazing lands for the mammoths, no certainty of shelter when the snows come. The old and the very young would not survive such an ordeal.’
‘And we do not know that the Skulltaker would not follow,’ Hutga added. ‘That leaves one other choice, the same choice that stood before us before Thaulik Scabtongue’s visit.
‘We ready our warriors, we sharpen our blades, and we wait for the Skulltaker. Let the last stand of the Tsavags be such that it will be the stuff of legend even in the Hunting Halls.’
The Skulltaker’s sword crunched through the breast of the last of Csaba’s riders. With fatalistic abandon, the warriors had ridden back to confront their enemy, throwing themselves upon his sword to give their chieftain time to escape. The Skulltaker watched the last wretch slip from his saddle, his dying body landing in a heap of broken bone and spurting blood. The killer might have found the futility of the warrior’s fearless death amusing.
There was no escape for the men who bore the brand of Khorne beneath their flesh, not in the mortal realm, not in the world of the gods. Death was their doom, death in the name of the Skull Lord, death to honour the Skull Throne. The soul so long denied the Blood God would be his. Nothing would stop the slaughter this time.
The grey, dark walls of Iron Keep loomed ahead, over the scraggly plains, perched upon a broad hillock of weathered pumice.
Ancient and forbidding, its walls had been raised by the magic of Teiyogtei’s sorcerers and strengthened by their dark arts. When the king died and the power of the gods swept across his domain, the taint had infected rock and stone, tree and stream, sand and sky.
Some places bore the marks of the gods more heavily than others. The fortress had been reared by Teiyogtei to protect the long desolate orchards of which only the twisted Vulturewood was a reminder. Now it was the stronghold of the Gahhuks, an impregnable vastness that had defied both siege and sorcery countless times during its long history.