WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 03(R)-Forged by Chaos Page 12

  The marauder wiped the spray of brains and blood from his face and shouted his triumph to the staring sky. Let the Raven God watch him! Let Mighty Tchar see the way Kormak exulted in the gifts of flesh his god had given him!

  Around him, Kormak could see the other warriors of Urbaal’s band taking their own gory toll upon the men of the Empire. They had outnumbered Urbaal’s men when the battle began. The warriors of the Raven Host had just emerged from the narrow fissure between the hills, entering a wide expanse of muddy clay, bubbling and spurting as unseen fires boiled it from below. Despite the sinister appearance, the ground was safe to cross – at least as safe as anything in the Chaos Wastes could be, and they had made good time sprinting over the forsaken muck. There was no question of Jodis Wolfscar’s trail now; the bodies of her slaughtered warriors were abundant enough. Few bore the kind of wounds that marked the man in the pass. Most were brutally violated, their flesh mangled by fang and claw and horn. Many bore the unmistakable marks of predation and the way some of the bodies were contorted and disfigured with agony, it was obvious not all of them had been dead when they were eaten.

  The clay mire gave no sign what had killed Wolfscar’s men. The muck refused to hold footprints for any time. A horde of giants might have beset Wolfscar’s warband and the treacherous earth would have concealed all trace of them.

  Occasionally, a body would turn up that bore different marks. A torso ripped apart by a lance, a skull cracked by a steel-shod hoof. Kormak pointed these out to Urbaal and again repeated his warning about southlander knights.

  As though his warning had evoked the capricious humour of the gods, a large body of armoured cavalry appeared far below the horizon. The flattened terrain gave no hiding place to conceal the riders, their appearance could have been no more impossible than if the boggy clay had spit them out. Tolkku had drawn one of his weird skulls from the skin bag he carried. A sinister thing with no sockets in its face, somehow the zealot used the morbid charm to descry the nature of the riders.

  ‘Empire-folk,’ he had pronounced. ‘Thirty or forty to our ten. One of their heathen priests leads them.’

  Kormak and the other warriors prepared to sell their lives for what havoc they could claim. There was no hope of outrunning the riders, even if there had been someplace to run. Urbaal had growled a curse upon the mischievous daemons that favoured his enemies.

  But if magic had been kind to the Empire men, Vakaan had the power to force it to be kind to the Raven Host. The magus had produced three gnarled stones from a pouch sewn into his robes. Kormak could feel the chill of sorcery in his bones as Vakaan’s birdlike tongue formed a raspy incantation. Emerald fires burst from the pebbles as the magus cast them to the ground.

  Charging soldiers of the Empire and hardened warriors of the Raven Host alike fell to their faces in awe as Vakaan’s sorcery ravaged the flatland of clay. Like a farmer sowing seeds, the magus ministered to his pebbles. There was a ferocious pulse of power, a throb of malignance that made the ground tremble. In less than the blinking of an eye, immense boulders burst from the clay, expanding and rising like foam upon a crashing wave.

  The warriors of Tzeentch gave praise as the magic of Vakaan gave birth to a refuge from the southlander cavalry. As the jumble of boulders and rocks grew into a hill, they clambered up the raging slopes, jeering at the stunned knights and soldiers who gazed upon their sorcerous bastion.

  The southlanders might have broken but for the presence of their false-priest. The grizzled old man had the look of a veteran warrior about him despite his flowing robes and shaven head. He clutched the tiny hammer that hung around his neck, knuckles turning white as he pressed the icon into his skin. The priest took solace from the token of his god, fear draining away, replaced with the most bitter of hate.

  ‘Do not fear, men of Sigmar!’ the priest’s voice roared in the grating tones of the southlander tongue. ‘This is no black miracle! It is an illusion. A falsehood. A daemon’s lie!’

  The conviction of the priest did not spread into his followers. It was the man who rode beside the bald cleric who decided things. A wiry, sinister figure shrouded in a black cloak, his face hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat, the man turned his stern gaze upon the soldiers.

  ‘You have heard Father Wilhelm.’ the officer raged. ‘We outnumber the heathen scum and the protection of holy Sigmar is our shield!’ He drew a strange weapon, a cylinder of steel fitted to a wooden hilt from a sheath and pointed it at the hill. There was a crash and a flash of flame. One of the Kurgan warriors screamed in pain, clutching his bleeding face before falling down the slope of the hill.

  ‘Grey Lancers!’ the officer shouted, holstering his smoking weapon. ‘Dismount and send this vermin shrieking into the abyss.’

  Kormak smiled as he saw the same officer scrambling up the side of the hill. The two enemies locked eyes across the still expanding pile of jumbled stone, sharing a moment of hate. The marauder could smell the stink of death on this one, the foul smell of torturer and sadist. He noted the little hammer icons dangling from strings fitted to the officer’s sword.

  ‘You need your god to steady your hand, little worm?’ Kormak snapped in crude Reikspiel. It was strange, speaking the language of slaves while he himself was Tolkku’s thrall. The marauder’s face pulled back in a sneer as he savoured the irony.

  ‘Sigmar will judge me worthy when I spill your life on these hell-spawned rocks, cur,’ the officer hissed.

  Kormak spat and hefted his axe. ‘Sigmar licks the dung from Tchar’s back-feathers.’

  The officer’s eyes went crimson with wrath. He lunged at Kormak with the violence of a tempest, his sword slashing and jabbing at the marauder’s twisted bulk. Kormak felt slivers of pain flash through him as the southlander’s steel glanced across his flesh. His own axe seemed a clumsy weapon beside the lithe sword, the southlander managing to intercept it at every turn. Kormak grinned, allowing the officer to become fixated upon defending himself against the axe.

  Abruptly, Kormak let one of his hands slip free from the handle of the axe. Fingers melted into a knob of iron-hard bone while his forearm stretched to twice its natural length. The suddenness of the mutation caught his foe by complete surprise. The officer was thrown from his feet as Kormak’s mutant mace smashed into his chest. The marauder could feel his enemy’s breastplate crumple beneath the blow, could hear ribs snap under the impact.

  The southlander was thrown, landing in a tangle of limbs and pain. Kormak laughed at his enemy, willing his mutant arm to reshape itself into a gigantic, insect-like claw. The Empire man watched him as he advanced, hate refusing to make room for pain in the smouldering pits of his eyes.

  ‘Mutant filth!’ the southlander snarled. ‘I’ve sent hundreds of your foul breed to the stake! Know this, monster: no mutant touches a witch hunter twice!’

  Kormak ran at the southlander, draining every ounce of speed from his immense frame. It was not enough. The witch hunter reached to another holster on his belt, drawing a second pistol. There was a grimace of loathing on his face as he aimed and fired.

  The marauder felt the bullet slam home, felt its searing trail stab through his chest. Unspeakable agony pulsed through him as his heart was ripped and torn. The pain brought him to his knees, then an even greater pain flooded through his body as he felt his heart binding itself together once more, as his flesh knitted itself whole again. The tang of Tolkku’s grisly magic stained his thoughts, polluting his soul. The zealot, it seemed, was not finished with his slave and would redeem him even from a southlander’s bullet.

  The witch hunter stared in open-mouthed horror as he saw the fatal wound seep close and the marauder rise once more. He fumbled at his belt in a pathetic struggle to reload his pistol. Kormak slapped the foul-smelling powder horn from the man’s hands. The marauder’s teeth lengthened into wolfish fangs as he lifted the southlander off the ground. The witch hunter gave a deafening shriek as Kormak began peeling flesh and muscle from the man’s
arm with his claw, like a malicious child plucking petals from a flower.

  ‘The mutant is touching you,’ Kormak growled through his fangs. ‘Why don’t you stop him, witch hunter?’

  ‘Impressive sorcery, for an animal.’

  Prince Inhin’s comment was one designed to vex Pyra. She refused to give the preening noble the satisfaction of seeing her rise to the bait. ‘An illiterate ape could work such magic in this place. Perhaps you might try your hand at a spell or two, my prince.’

  Inhin’s face turned sour. He rounded on Beblieth. ‘You were told to find the asur. I do not see any of our treasonous kin over there.’ The noble’s brow knitted in perplexity as he stared down at the witch elf. ‘Tell me, just how simple do I need to explain things for you? I’ve had dogs that could obey better.’

  Beblieth lowered her face as Inhin upbraided her, more to hide the anger in her eyes than out of any sense of shame. ‘I will do better, my prince.’

  Inhin turned away. The dark elves stood upon the plain of clay, some leagues distant from where the Grey Lancers fought against Urbaal’s warband. They had been crossing the strange morass for hours before Beblieth had returned, informing them that she had found the human allies of the asur wizard. Eager to confront the loremaster and steal from him the artefact that would give him control over the Raven Host, Inhin had ordered a gruelling quick march to close upon the enemy.

  ‘Given your performance, better will not be very hard to do,’ Inhin quipped.

  ‘Forgive me, my prince,’ Beblieth asked. Inhin gave her a withering scowl.

  ‘Tell me why I should,’ he demanded.

  ‘Because Beblieth has provided the means to find the traitor asur,’ Naagan said. The morbid disciple of Khaine held his arms across his chest in a peculiarly boneless fashion. More than anything, it made the elf look like some lurking vulture. He nodded at the distant melee. ‘Those are warriors of the Raven Host down there, warriors with at least one powerful sorcerer among their number. Ask yourself, my prince, why would such warriors be here?’

  Inhin turned his scowl on the disciple. ‘I neither know nor care what moves a pack of stupid animals.’

  ‘You should,’ Naagan advised, some of the deference slipping from his tone. ‘Your father did not care about the ways of animals either. He had his heart ripped out upon the altars of the lizard-kin.’

  ‘My father was a fool,’ Inhin said, his voice cold and filled with menace. ‘If you have a point to make, priest, do so. And quickly.’

  Naagan bowed his head in apology. ‘I think the northmen are about the same purpose that guides our own quest. They seek the Bastion Stair and the Spear Dolchir carries with him. Has it occurred to you that if the Raven Host were to gain the Spear they would have no need of alliance with Lord Uthorin… or Prince Inhin?’

  The noble nodded his head slowly, grudgingly allowing the wisdom of Naagan’s observation. ‘Then we shall simply see to it that the animals fail.’ He turned a cold smile on Pyra once more. ‘You boast of your sorcery, my sweet,’ he savoured the way she jumped to hear him use the same words as Sardiss. ‘Let us put your power to the test. The barbarian’s magic raised a mountain. Let us see if Pyra Nightblade is able to cast it down again.’

  The spiked fingers of Urbaal’s gauntlet sank into the face of the Grey Lancer, gouging deep furrows in the southlander’s flesh. The man struggled to free himself, trying desperately to pull his sword free from the Chaos champion’s clutch. Urbaal’s own sword held the weapon in a grip of steel, the daemon-forged metal of the Chosen’s blade slowly bending the weak Imperial craftsmanship. Urbaal savoured the terror in the eyes that stared at him from between the splayed fingers of his gauntlet. An image flashed through his mind, the recollection of a wolf caught in the jaws of a trap, desperately trying to tear itself loose.

  The Imperial sword broke with a shrill snap, a foot of the blade spinning away to be lost among the steadily growing rocks. Urbaal’s blade lunged past the broken parry of his enemy, chewing into the soldier’s side in a spray of blood. Urbaal tightened his hold upon his foe’s face, feeling bone and cartilage crushed into ruin beneath his grip.

  ‘Monster! Beast of the Pit!’

  Urbaal turned slowly as the caustic words fell upon him. The face buried within the metal mask of his helm snickered as his eyes settled upon his accuser. The shaven-headed false-priest. Truly Tzeentch was being generous to his champion this day. Urbaal finished breaking the face of the screaming thing he held, letting the human wreckage flop and writhe and he stalked away to find new prey.

  ‘Daemon-kissing scum!’ the priest shouted, his voice cracking with the fury of his words. ‘By the strength of Sigmar, you will answer for your heresies!’

  Urbaal stood still, his burning eyes taking the measure of his enemy. The priest was old, well past his thirtieth winter, but he had done his best to stave off the ravages of age. There was muscle beneath the white robes and shining mail he wore. His hard face was grim and scarred, the leathery mask of a veteran warrior. Almost, Urbaal felt a twinge of grudging respect as he saw the priest lift the gigantic warhammer he bore. Then the Chosen’s gaze fell to the little icon dangling about the southlander’s neck and his contempt for his foe swelled.

  ‘There is only one heresy,’ Urbaal’s iron voice hissed. ‘The blasphemy of being a fool.’ He tightened his grip upon his sword. The weapon blazed into life at his command, assuming the scintillating aura of divine power that had vanquished Odvaha’s daemons. ‘Die now, false-father, and know your god is a lie.’

  The priest braced himself for the Chosen’s assault, muttering prayers to his god. Golden fire slowly gathered in the bludgeoning hulk of his warhammer. Flares of righteous fury crackled from the southlander’s eyes, licking out like fiery lashes of sunlight. ‘Behold the power of Sigmar and despair, monster!’

  Urbaal laughed. ‘I see only the hand of Tchar. He would not have me grow bored with our battle, false-father.’

  With astounding speed, the Chosen sprang at the priest, his shimmering blade sweeping down at the shaven pate of the priest. His foe caught the glowing weapon with the heft of his hammer. For an instant southlander and Chosen were locked in deadly struggle, both men exerting the strength of their bodies and the power of their gods to overwhelm the other. Urbaal saw doubt flicker on the priest’s hard face as the Chosen’s blade inched downward. Horror flashed across the man’s features as he realised his lack of faith. Renewed fury blazed up in his eyes, the prayers spilling from his lips grew louder and more enraged.

  Urbaal staggered as the priest forced him back, breaking the hold of the Chaos blade upon his warhammer. The Chosen was forced to retreat as the burning hammerhead came smashing down at him, pulverizing the stones at his feet. Urbaal snarled, the sound distorted and twisted by his mask. He could feel the eyes of the other combatants upon the hill watching him, eager for the first sign of weakness. The merciless gaze of the gods pressed down upon him and in his ears he could hear the mocking laughter of the Changer.

  The Chosen slashed at the priest, his blade scraping across the southlander’s breastplate. Metal bubbled and flowed like wax beneath the touch of his sword, but the blow failed to penetrate to the enemy within the armour. Urbaal spun to catch the priest’s warhammer as the enemy drove at him again. Once more the two foes were locked in a struggle of strength and determination.

  Urbaal’s smouldering eyes glared into the pious fires of the priest’s gaze. The Chosen pressed all of his weight, all of his anger, all of his ambition into the effort to tear the hammer from the priest’s grasp. He scowled inside his helm as the priest’s prayers became a thunderous echo in his ears, an accusing cacophony that quickly rose into a deafening tumult. The Chosen growled and clenched his teeth against the maddening din, refusing to be cowed.

  The priest snarled back at him, struggling to maintain his hold against the brutal monster. Inch by inch, the weight and fury of Urbaal was driving him back, his feet sliding in the pebbly ground. The sout
hlander tried to draw upon reserves of faith, but there was nothing left to throw into the contest. Inch by inch, he was pushed back, pushed to what he knew would be his death.

  The monster glared back at him, inhuman eyes glowing from the skull-like face of his helm. The priest tried to find some sign of weakness, some testament that there was a man of flesh and bone within the gothic armour, beneath the plates of steel and sapphire. Anything that would tell him that his enemy was mortal. Anything that would give his failing faith new hope.

  Suddenly, the hill trembled and began to collapse. Overhead, the priest could see the birdlike magus upon his hovering daemon struggling to prevent the dissolution of his spell. The sorcerer was unequal to the task. For every wild gesture of his arms, every shrieked incantation of his voice, the collapse accelerated. Screams echoed over the grinding of stone and the quaking earth. It pleased the priest to hear the harsh tones of northmen mingled with the war cries of Imperial soldiers.

  The priest smiled at Urbaal.

  ‘Sigmar’s justice is upon you,’ he snarled as the slope above the two combatants came crashing down upon them in an avalanche of smashing boulders and choking dust.