by Warhammer
‘I am afraid, sorcerer, that it was not your woman I spoke of,’ Dorgo said. ‘A more substantial measure of your trust is needed to satisfy the Tsavag.’
The eyes of both of the Sul smouldered like embers of hate as they fixed upon Dorgo. Sanya’s hand came up, scratching at his face. Dorgo caught the slender arm, pinning it to her side. He laughed openly as the witch struggled in his grip, making a show of his contempt for her magic, trusting that the display would not be lost on his tribesmen. Fears of sorcerous retribution could wait.
‘What my son means,’ Hutga’s stern voice intoned as the khagan caught the intention behind Dorgo’s words, ‘is that we need something you cannot replace. Give me Soulchewer to take down into the pit and I’ll trust you to remain above.’ Hutga watched Enek Zjarr’s face contort with outrage. ‘Otherwise our pact concludes here. The Bloodeater remains with Teiyogtei’s bones and our tribes must face the Skulltaker alone.’
Sanya accompanied the Tsavag warriors down into the mouldering tomb. She had been compelled to by her master. It was with great reluctance that Enek Zjarr had given over his naginta. Even then, he had not trusted the weapon to Hutga or any of the Tong, but had insisted that Sanya carry it. The look of hate and betrayal the woman gave him caused Dorgo to wonder at the sorcerer’s foolishness in entrusting the weapon to her. It also impressed upon the warrior something else, something his father had suspected: Enek Zjarr knew what kind of menace lurked in the tomb. That it could cause even a sorcerer such fear did not reassure him.
The sorcerer had remained behind, along with a pair of Tsavags who understood what was expected of them should the others not return. Alfkaell had stayed above as well, sitting upon one of the rocks, chuckling evilly as the expedition descended into the barrow.
Candles of mammoth fat carried by every third warrior illuminated the blackness of the tomb. The stink of death was overwhelming, bringing tears to the eyes of the men. They were forced to linger in the barren antechamber of the tomb, letting their senses become accustomed enough to the reek to allow them to proceed. Dorgo thought he heard something, a curious shuffling sound just audible beneath the gagging, retching disorder of the other warriors. Ulagan appeared to hear it as well, his brow knitting in concentration.
‘When we enter the tomb,’ cautioned Sanya, her voice a fearful whisper, ‘be careful of the walls. Touch nothing unless it be the Bloodeater itself.’ The witch swayed weakly, using the bronze haft of the naginta for support. Some false show of weakness on her part, or was it evidence of the magic-negating influence within the tomb?
Togmol snorted derisively at Sanya’s warning. The tall warrior strode to the huge stone door of the tomb, pressing his back against the portal. He waved aside other warriors who came forwards to help him. Slowly, by inches and degrees, the massive door swung inwards. A carrion reek even worse than what had afflicted the Tsavags before hissed out from behind the stone door. Dorgo felt his gorge rise. Sanya blanched and vomited against the wall. Hutga wiped tears from his face.
‘Nameless children of the Horned One!’ the chieftain cursed. ‘Have the bones of Teiyogtei been rotting these thousand years?’
Several candle-bearing warriors rushed forwards, fighting their way through the stench to show their bravery and be the first to enter the tomb. One of the Tsavags uttered a moan of horror, another took several steps back, prayers to gods and ancestors mumbling from his lips. Dorgo took the candle from the man and pushed his way past him.
Dorgo was not sure what he had expected to find in the tomb of the almost legendary king. Certainly there was treasure, heaped gold and piled gems, suits of armour and stacks of weapons.
A huge, fang-faced idol crouched over the wealth, the skull-rune etched into its horned brow, gigantic bloodstones shining from its eye sockets. A black slab of obsidian stood before the idol, upon which shreds of armour and bits of bone continued to linger. Something shone red from the top of the slab, like a puddle of scarlet tears.
It was not the idol, nor the wealth nor the bones of their ancient king that struck Dorgo and his fellows with disgust. The walls of the tomb were carpeted in decaying meat and long strings of gore dripped from the ceiling. The crypt was more charnel house than grave and carried with it the filthy stench of an abattoir. As he took a step across the threshold, Dorgo found his legs sinking up to the knee in a mire of rancid blood and chewed flesh.
‘When the great king was buried, all the tribes mourned his loss.’ Sanya said. She had appeared at the doorway, staring in horror at the room. ‘To show their grief, the eighth part of each tribe was chosen to be entombed with their lord.’
Dorgo could see the revolting details of the hideous chamber, the shape of some of the things dripping from the walls. He considered the fell power of this place, a power that maintained carrion against the ravages of time and decay, that allowed such a grotesque reminder of ancient horror to linger on through the centuries. He imagined the hundreds who had been buried with Teiyogtei, condemned to die in the dark of the crypt. He imagined the long days in the eternal blackness, without food or air or water. He could see that moment in his mind, that terrible moment when they turned upon one another, to feast upon the only flesh to be had.
‘Blood of all the gods!’ exclaimed Togmol as he waded into the crypt. His knuckles were white against the haft of his axe. Other warriors followed him into the tomb, sloshing through the ghastly filth.
‘Let us get the sword and be gone,’ ordered Hutga as he descended into the mire. ‘The sorcerer was right to shun this place.’
Dorgo followed his father as they waded towards the obsidian slab and the bones of Teiyogtei Khagan. The other warriors spread out, watching the shadows for any sign of the lurking danger that Enek Zjarr had feared.
‘The filthy Norscan has been living here!’ cried out one warrior in shock and revulsion. He gestured with his sword at a crude pallet of wood floating upon the bloody pond. Animal skins were draped across it forming a rough sort of bed. A small waterskin and an assortment of dried meats completed the humble possessions of the war-priest.
‘Living like an animal among all this wealth!’ coughed another warrior. ‘The scum must be mad!’ He reached a calloused hand out to pull a jewelled necklace from one of the piles of treasure. Instantly, Sanya’s voice screamed through the crypt.
‘Touch nothing!’ the sorceress shouted, but the reminder was too late. The warrior had already pulled his prize from the heap, turning it around in his hand as he held it up to the flickering light of his candle. If he heard the woman’s warning, he gave no sign, captivated by the play of light against the sapphires and emeralds. He could see the crypt around him reflected in the stones, somehow less gruesome when viewed in the blue mirror of a sapphire.
Then something appeared that even the facet of a gemstone could not soften. It did not swim like a fish or a man or any living creature, it rose, bobbing up from beneath the surface of the pond like a rotting log rushing up from the depths of a lake.
At first, it was nothing more than a bulbous hump of flesh, bereft of anything that suggested life or menace. Then it opened some of its eyes, opened some of its mouths, opened some of its hands. The warrior who had seized the necklace screamed and the sound was echoed in an idiot chorus from the distorted faces scattered across the hump’s surface.
Before the Tsavag could scream again, a coil of flesh thicker than his leg flickered out from the undulating hump. It wrapped around his neck with such brutal force that it snapped like a twig. Before any of the other warriors could react, the tentacle was retreating back to the loathsome, shrieking body, dragging the corpse of their tribesman with it. The men could only watch in horror as the dozens of faces littered around the thing’s body began to chew the Tsavag’s flesh.
‘Kill it!’ Togmol roared, his voice more sturdy than his trembling hands. The warrior launched himself at the feeding fleshbeast, chopping at it with his axe. Puny, withered arms swatted ineffectually at him from the abomination
’s bulk, like so many sickly children trying to fend off a lion. Then another of the massive, ropy tentacles erupted from the thing, smashing into Togmol’s chest like a ram. The Tsavag was thrown back, crashing against a pile of armour. The faces tearing at the body of the warrior the beast had killed became frantic in their efforts to strip the meat from his bones as the hulk surged towards the stunned Togmol.
Before the fleshbeast could move far, other warriors were upon it. Spears stabbed into the quivering hulk and swords slashed at its gibbering faces. Eyes ruptured beneath the blows of maces, while spindly arms were hacked away by the keen edges of axes.
The abomination was oblivious to its injuries, lashing out at the men around it with its flailing tentacles. Faces and gnashing teeth lined the horrific limbs as they whipped and tore at the Tsavags. Warriors retreated as comrades fell, huge chunks bitten from their bodies. Each Tsavag who fell was dragged back to the ox-sized bulk of the thing, to be devoured by its ravenous maws.
‘Get the sword!’ Hutga yelled at Dorgo. The chieftain did not wait to see if his son followed his command. Holding his spear before him, he charged through the knee-deep slush, a war cry ripping from his lungs. The fleshbeast shifted its slobbering, shrieking mass in his direction. A thick, slimy tentacle struck at him, lashing through the air like solid lightning. The chieftain was knocked from his feet, flailing face-first into the muck.
Breath wheezed from Hutga’s body as the tentacle smashed down against him, pressing his body deeper into the mire. He could feel the filth of the tomb slopping down his nose and ears, even as his lungs started to burn from lack of air. Mouths, loathsomely human in their feel, gnawed at his armour and worried at his iron-studded skin. The powerful khagan tried to free himself from the fleshbeast’s vile clutches, but the mass crushing down on him was heavier than a tree and the slimy floor of the tomb offered him no purchase. Drowned or chewed by the fleshbeast, either way he realised that his bones would be joining those of Teiyogtei.
The pressure against his back relented, abruptly and the biting mouths withdrew. Hutga broke the surface of the blood pond, sucking down great gasps of the unclean air. Tsavag warriors worked all around him, savaging the ghastly monster from every quarter. Berserk fury gripped the men, enraged that their khagan should fall before such filth. Togmol led the attack, chopping at the fiend with a double-bladed axe that he had looted from the treasures of the tomb.
Hutga looked around him, sickened by the mangled bodies floating in the ancient gore. At least a dozen of his men had been claimed by the monster, its sucking tentacles still slithering blindly through the soup to drag corpses back to its drooling mouths.
The khagan ground his teeth together. Hefting his spear, he rushed once more at the thing. The ji bit into the monster’s side, blazing like sunfire against its dripping flesh. The thing’s idiot faces did not change their vacuous expressions, but their shrieks became shriller, more agonised than before.
The fleshbeast surged towards Hutga, forcing the chieftain back. The tentacle that whipped out from its body never reached the khagan, however. It was slashed in mid-strike, nearly cleft in half by the blow of a sword. Hutga stabbed at the injured limb with his ji, completing the job. Part of the tentacle shot back into the oozing bulk of the monster, the rest flopping and writhing in the filth of the floor.
While the thing reeled in pain, Togmol and six other warriors converged upon it, cutting and slashing it mercilessly. Greasy black putrescence bubbled up from its wounds and even its maddened mind began to lose the taste for battle.
It tried to sink back into the mire, but the raging Tsavags would not be denied. Togmol’s axe slashed through the hump of flesh, splitting faces as it dug through the leathery shell and into the sludge-like foulness within. The fleshbeast shuddered as pulpy brown paste erupted from this new wound. Laughing vengefully, the other warriors tore and ripped at the quivering abomination, widening the gouges made by Hutga’s spear and Togmol’s axe.
Hutga turned away from the dying monster. It was on his tongue to thank the man who had come to his aid, but in turning he found that he owed his life to Dorgo. Gratitude warred with his concern that Dorgo could so easily have become another of the monster’s many victims. Such an end was ignoble enough for Hutga to have exposed himself to, the thought of his son dying in such a manner was too abhorrent for the khagan to entertain.
‘I told you to get the Bloodeater,’ Hutga scolded his son, finding a different excuse for his distemper.
‘It is not fitting for any but the khagan to bear Teiyogtei’s sword,’ Dorgo protested, bowing in deference to his father.
Hutga nodded by way of accepting his son’s excuse. He gestured for Dorgo to lead the way. More than ever, he was eager to secure the sword and be gone. There was no telling whether the tomb harboured any more monsters. He scowled as he saw a figure standing over the obsidian slab, her dark robes stained by the bloody slush that filled the crypt.
Dorgo reached the slab before his father, before Sanya could make off with her prize. The bones of Teiyogtei were mostly dust, his armour little more than tatters and strips of gilding, but the Bloodeater remained, a clutch of crimson shards each the size of a finger. Sanya had gathered them together on a black cloth, rapidly folding the silk to secure the fragments. Before she could hide the bundle, Dorgo was upon her. He had already noted how sorely the baleful influence of the tomb had affected the witch. Her struggle to retain the bundle of fragments was almost pitiful. Dorgo presented the treasure to his father as Hutga advanced upon the sepulchre.
‘That belongs to the Sul!’ Sanya snapped as Hutga accepted the bundle from his son.
The khagan smiled at her outburst. ‘Tsavag blood was spilled to claim these,’ he said, jostling the bundle in his hand. ‘That makes my people’s investment the greater.’ He looked across the crypt to where his warriors were finishing off the fleshbeast. ‘We’ve fought Enek Zjarr’s monsters, but if he thinks the Tsavag are fools, he has much to learn.’
‘The sword is useless to you!’ protested Sanya.
‘Yes, but I’ll feel better holding onto it,’ said Hutga. ‘Enek Zjarr has some scheme to get the sword to the Black Altar. If he still intends to remake the Bloodeater, then he will share that plan with me. Then I’ll decide if the Sul are still worthy of my friendship.’
‘Traitor,’ Sanya hissed. Coming from a Hung, it was almost a compliment.
‘Not at all,’ Hutga laughed, ‘simply prudent. Come, let us tell Enek Zjarr how things stand now that the Bloodeater is mine.’
The khagan laughed again as Dorgo herded the sorceress away from the king’s tomb. ‘As a measure of my good faith,’ Hutga said, ‘I’m even going to let you give him back Soulchewer.’
Alfkaell watched the Tsavags descend the slope of the hill, returning to their waiting mammoths. He did not have to be told what they had taken from the tomb of Teiyogtei, he could sense its taint on the Tong warriors as they emerged from the barrow. He did not need to be told what they hoped to do with the fragments of the Bloodeater. The thought brought a sinister smile to the Norscan’s face. The fools clung to hope like jackals to an old bone.
The war-priest knelt, grabbing a clutch of dirt from the ground, letting the grains sift through his fingers as he held it. The once red, vibrant earth was changing, becoming dead and grey even as he watched. Alfkaell lifted his head, staring at the towering monolith above the barrow. The once imposing standing stone showed cracks, deep fissures spreading through it like wrinkles across the face of a withering man. The smell of battle and carnage that had lingered around the hill down through the centuries was dissipating, scattering to the winds. Khorne’s power, once so heavy upon the site, was being withdrawn. When the Tsavags took the Bloodeater from the tomb, they had performed an irrevocable desecration. The tomb, a sacred testament to the Blood God’s power, was sacred no longer.
Alfkaell turned his eyes to the west. There was nothing to keep him here any longer. He would return to his own l
ands, his own people. The Aeslings would welcome him back as a Bloodfather, a seer of Khorne. Such would be his reward for obeying the command of his god.
The Norscan looked again to the south, where the war mammoths were slowly lumbering away, plodding back into the narrow valleys.
The Tsavags and the Sul thought to defy the command of the Blood God. They thought they could live when Khorne had ordered that they should die. It was the folly of mortals that they thought they could trick the gods. Teiyogtei thought he could defy the will of Khorne, but his soul would enter the Molten Pit and endure the tortures of the damned. Hutga and Enek Zjarr thought they could destroy the champion that Khorne had sent to claim their heads. They thought they could remake the Bloodeater by taking it to the Black Altar. They thought they could use the legendary blade of the king to destroy the Skulltaker.
Alfkaell smiled as he started to descend the western slope of the greying hill. It was a malevolent smile, the knowing wickedness of one who has seen danger and held his tongue.
The sorcerers had planned well, but they had not reckoned upon one thing. Sleeping in the tomb, Alfkaell’s dreams touched upon the sanguine realm of Khorne, brushing against the power of his god. Sometimes, images and impressions lingered to affect his waking mind. Scarlet tomorrows and crimson yesterdays filled Alfkaell’s thoughts, more vivid than his own memories. The Norscan laughed as he considered how feeble the divinations of the Sul were beside the visions granted by a god.
By their very deceit, by their bold and reckless scheme, perhaps it was not their plan that the Sul followed, but that of the Blood God.
The Skulltaker sat upon the bronze husk of a juggernaut, carefully stripping the flesh from Csaba’s skull. The rune of Khorne stood livid upon the dead zar’s forehead. Soon, it would join the other trophies hanging from the chain lashed across the warrior’s chest, another skull to lay before the Skull Throne.
Nearby, the carcass of the Skulltaker’s steed had disintegrated into a mash of gore, corroding until it was nothing more than bloody pulp strewn across the soil. Movement from the puddle drew the warrior’s attention. A broad paw with savage, scythe-like claws emerged from the filth. It was quickly followed by a second, both of the feet gripping the ground fiercely with their talons. A lupine shape pulled itself from the mire, shaking gore from its shaggy crimson pelt. Like the mythic phoenix of distant Khemri, the Skulltaker’s steed had arisen from its destruction, reborn from its ruin. The wolf-beast was smaller than it had been, just a pup compared to the murderous brute that had been trampled by the juggernaut. It turned its hungry gaze on its master, watching him for long minutes while he resumed his gruesome work.