WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 03(R)-Forged by Chaos Read online

  Before the champion of Khorne could act, however, he felt his steed twisting beneath him. Already unbalanced by its efforts to remove the dagger from its eye, the juggernaut was rolling over, forced to turn by the man who had seized its armoured neck. Kormak turned the daemon as if it were some great steer. Every vein bulged in the marauder’s body, his mutant claw sizzling as the juggernaut’s molten blood spurted from where he gripped it. The effort was superhuman, only the juggernaut’s already compromised position making it possible. Chorek spun in the saddle, trying to bring his sword down on the horned marauder. The shifting of his weight was the final straw. The juggernaut squealed and fell, smashing onto its side.

  Kormak stared at Beblieth. The witch elf simply smiled and pointed. The marauder quickly followed her gesture. If his toppling of the juggernaut had been impossible, Chorek’s feat was even more so. The champion was pushing the squealing, thrashing bulk off him, shoving it aside with a bone-jarring effort. With a final shove that actually caused the juggernaut to slide a foot or better over the flagstones, Chorek freed himself from the daemon’s pinning weight. He lifted his monstrous sword, all thoughts of Urbaal vanquished from his mind.

  Kormak shifted the weight of his axe in his hand, watching as Chorek limped towards him. The Chosen’s leg had been all but flattened by the juggernaut. Kormak smiled as he saw the blood dripping down Chorek’s mangled limb, then frowned as he felt the wound in his side flowing down his flank. Even with Chorek’s wound it was already an uneven contest. Kormak only had to hope that the injury the giant’s handler had given him before he had died would not tip the balance even further in the champion’s favour.

  Urbaal drove his shoulder into the gladiator standing over his sword, pitching the shrieking warrior into the molten brass. The Chosen had no time to watch his foe die. His gauntlet closed about the heft of his sword. He rolled along the floor, ending the move in a defending crouch. The axe of a second gladiator came smashing down, blocked by Urbaal’s lifted steel. The Skulltaker howled with rage, bringing the axe smashing down again, trying to batter Urbaal’s defence. Urbaal strained as axe met sword. Inch by inch, he forced himself back onto his feet, forced the Skulltaker to give ground before him. Now another pair of champions were rushing for him, eager to join the first and make an easy kill.

  The Chosen of Tzeentch brought his knee smashing into the gladiator’s groin, the blow lifting his enemy’s feet. The Skulltaker stumbled back. Urbaal did not give him a chance to recover. Coruscating energy slashed through the barbarian’s neck, sending his head leaping into the air. For a moment the decapitated body groped blindly before it, then it accepted death and crashed onto its side. Urbaal braced himself for the attack of the other champions.

  Skulltakers roared their fury as they charged Urbaal, their rage seemingly magnified by their helms. One of the barbarians suddenly staggered, his leg cut from under him. He smashed into the floor, twisting about to grip the bleeding ruin of his knee. Even as he did so, another long elven dagger stabbed at him, driven through the narrow slit of his visor to impale his brain.

  Beblieth smiled and licked the man’s blood from the blade. Confronted on both sides, the other champion hesitated, his eyes turning from the sinister witch elf to Urbaal, deciding which enemy would attack first.

  Urbaal nodded a salute to Beblieth. The witch elf’s reply was a mocking laugh. ‘I don’t want anything happening to the Spear. You were just in the way.’

  Chosen and witch elf began to circle the embattled gladiator. The Skulltaker glared defiantly at them. Waiting for the attack to come. He was not ready when both of his enemies abruptly broke away, scrambling back as quickly as they could. Instinctively, the gladiator sprang after his retreating enemies. He did not take more than two steps before the giant’s hoof came smashing down, pulverizing him.

  Dust was still rising from the Skulltaker’s destruction when Urbaal leapt at the giant. His sword lashed out like a tongue of flame, rippling with the power of the Changer. It bit into the hard bone of the giant’s ankle, sheering through it like a woodaxe through a sapling.

  The bloodgiant bellowed in agony and shock. The brute stumbled, its drunken balance destroyed completely by Urbaal’s crippling blow. The giant toppled, arms flailing desperately. It did not fall far, smashing against the edge of Slaurith’s balcony. Several of the Chaos lord’s monstrous entourage were crushed beneath the giant’s horned skull.

  The giant shuddered, writhing against the wall, its head spitted upon dozens of the balcony’s steel spikes. Slowly, life drained from the ghastly bulk.

  ‘You might have warned me you were going to do that,’ Beblieth snarled at Urbaal.

  The Chosen shrugged. ‘No different than felling timber,’ he said. ‘And Slaurith didn’t see fit to provide stairs.’

  The witch elf didn’t understand Urbaal’s meaning until she saw the warrior running towards the fallen giant, gouging handholds in the brute’s flesh, climbing it like a monstrous mountain. Beblieth shook her head and hurried after what she now realised was a madman.

  Urbaal reached the balcony just as Lord Slaurith was recovering from the giant’s brutal impact. The Chaos lord’s withered face split into an expression of unspeakable malignance. He pointed his armoured talon at Urbaal. ‘Kill this maggot,’ he snapped. The surviving flayed ones rushed at Urbaal in a mass of wailing, flailing horror, the hooks and chains that had replaced their arms flopping hideously against their sides.

  Before they could close upon him, Beblieth sprang from the head of the giant, putting herself between Urbaal and the wretched creatures. Her daggers ripped and slashed without mercy, cutting a crimson swathe through the tortured men. Urbaal strode through the carnage, his eyes locked upon Slaurith.

  Lord Slaurith took several steps back, giving ground before the advancing Urbaal. The Chaos lord stopped when he reached a short throne of black marble. Shackled at its foot was the battered body of a high elf, white rags still clinging to the archmage’s limbs. Slaurith gave his abused captive no notice, but reached over him to retrieve a huge double-handed sword from the stand behind his throne.

  ‘Who are you?’ Slaurith hissed as he turned back to face Urbaal.

  ‘I do not remember,’ Urbaal growled back. ‘I only know that we knew each other before the gods remade us into their image.’

  Lord Slaurith nodded. ‘Your skull will end upon one of these spikes,’ he said, gesturing to the gruesome trophies spitted upon his shoulderpads. ‘You should feel honoured.’

  ‘I will,’ Urbaal snarled back, ‘when I cut yours from its neck.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kormak’s axe shattered as Chorek’s sword smashed into it, peppering the marauder’s face with broken steel. The Norscan staggered, then twisted his body to avoid the champion’s riposte. His mutant arm, fused into the semblance of a crustacean claw, clicked shut about Chorek’s arm, trapping the monstrous sword as it came chopping down at his head. Chorek struggled to free his blade. Kormak rewarded his efforts by smashing the broken grip of his axe into the barbarian’s helm.

  It was an effort both brutal and desperate. Kormak could feel Chorek’s greater strength beginning to prevail, could feel his muscles burning under the strain of keeping the immense sword from slashing down. As he had feared, even crippled, Chorek was proving too strong to beat down. Kormak’s already sinking hopes were dashed even further when he saw something moving behind the champion. The juggernaut was lurching back to its feet, the blinding dagger now torn free from its eye. The daemon huffed angrily, snapping its bronze jaws.

  Before the juggernaut could charge Kormak and relieve its master, unexpected help came to the marauder’s aid. Roaring like daemons themselves, Gorgut and his remaining warriors descended upon the juggernaut, their axes clattering against its bronze skin. The daemon turned about to confront the greenskins. As it did so, a black-feathered arrow sprouted from the socket of its eye. Zagbob cackled maliciously, pointing his scrawny finger at the daemon. Three scaly
monstrosities bounded through the ranks of the orcs to chomp at the daemon’s armoured body.

  All of this Kormak took in with a single glance over Chorek’s shoulder, then he was pressed back by the snarling champion. The marauder’s feet slid along the flagstones as Chorek drove him back. He felt the heat of the moat behind him, could smell the sting of boiling brass in his nose. A few more steps and Chorek would push him into the fiery slag.

  Kormak yelled his desperation and brought his boot smashing into Chorek’s flattened leg. The champion buckled under the impact. Kormak swung the reeling barbarian about by his trapped arm, driving him towards the molten moat. Chorek locked his other hand about one of Kormak’s horns, pulling the marauder down with him.

  The two foes smashed down against the heated flagstones, their faces only inches from the bubbling brass. Chorek tried to wrestle Kormak underneath him, to pin the Norscan with his armoured weight. Kormak concentrated his efforts on something much more simple. He forced Chorek’s sword arm into the moat.

  Chorek screamed as the boiling metal devoured his sword and the hand that gripped it. Kormak rolled the stunned champion, copying Chorek’s efforts to get above his foe. Chorek ended the roll face-down beneath the Norscan. Kormak’s hands locked around the back of the champion’s bronze helm.

  Kormak’s war cry echoed across the arena as he exerted every muscle in his body to push Chorek’s head down into the bubbling brass. There was not time for the champion to even shriek before the burning metal was melting his helm and vaporizing the man within. Kormak spat on the twitching corpse, raising himself from the gruesome body and the desperate struggle that had marked the passing of Chorek.

  He watched the orcs making their furious attack on the juggernaut, then turned to rummage among the dead for a new weapon.

  Naagan watched the fall of the bloodgiant with a mixture of anxiety and relief. Relief because the rampaging brute was finished, anxiety because it drove home to the disciple the lethal prowess of Urbaal. Deceit would be needed to overcome the Chosen, he would not trust even Beblieth’s murderous talents in a straight fight with the human. He scowled as he looked at the last sorry remnants of Inhin’s warriors. The three elves looked as frightened as goblins, ready to bolt at the first opportunity. He could expect little help from that quarter.

  ‘If you are wondering how to steal the Spear, I can help you.’

  Naagan swung around, his hand closed about his dagger. He was surprised to see the tattooed zealot Tolkku standing there, even more surprised to hear elvish words on the tongue of an animal.

  Tolkku grinned as he noticed the disciple’s astonishment. He reached into his bag, removing a morbidly stained skull that was too angular and lean to be that of a man. ‘My tribe entertained an exile of your land. I spent many hours… conversing… with her before she left us. That is how I know your tongue. That is why I was able to listen to you when the sorceress had her… accident.’

  ‘Why should you help me?’ Naagan demanded. ‘Why would you betray your own kind?’

  Tolkku’s smile twisted into a grimace. ‘The triumph of Urbaal will not exalt the fortunes of Tolkku,’ he said. ‘And there are personal reasons I want to see him fail.’

  ‘He is a formidable enemy,’ Naagan pointed out.

  Tolkku laughed. ‘Not for me,’ he said. ‘I have already prepared the spell that will end his pretensions to glory. All I need is the opportunity.’

  ‘Do not think you will gain that opportunity with the bodies of my warriors,’ Naagan said, his voice thin and full of menace.

  ‘I will attend to Urbaal. I only need you to deal with Vakaan and the orcs,’ Tolkku chuckled. ‘It will be easy for me to deal with Urbaal.’

  ‘And you want nothing for helping us?’ Naagan asked, his eyes filled with suspicion.

  ‘One thing,’ Tolkku answered, holding up the elf skull. ‘When it is all over, I want the head of the Norscan. It will complete my collection.’

  Urbaal’s sword shuddered in his hand as Slaurith’s steel crashed against it. The face of the Chaos lord split in an ugly leer. Slaurith slashed at the Chosen a second time, the impact ringing off the clashing blades. A third strike and Urbaal was thrown back, his upper arm torn and bleeding, bits of shattered armour clattering about his feet.

  ‘We have been reshaped by the gods,’ Slaurith hissed. ‘But the one I chose is stronger.’

  Urbaal tightened his grip upon his blade, ignoring the blood streaming from his arm. The skull-faced helm of the Chosen glared into the withered flesh of Slaurith. ‘Tell that to him when I cut you down.’

  Slaurith’s face twisted into a bestial snarl. The Chaos lord lunged at Urbaal, slashing at him with his giant sword in a frenzied blur of murderous metal. Urbaal’s shining blade intercepted each blow, dancing about the Chosen’s body to form a blinding curtain of steel. The crash of sword against sword rattled through both men’s bodies as they strained to batter aside the blocking blade of the other.

  A growl of savagery rasped through Slaurith’s desiccated lips as his sword battered aside that of Urbaal. The Chosen ducked beneath the hurtling steel, dodging aside as Slaurith’s sword gouged a scar across the bronze wall. The Chaos lord turned as he realised his mistake, spinning to bring the heavy sword around before Urbaal could strike his unprotected back. By a hair’s breath, Slaurith’s blade caught the edge of Urbaal’s steel.

  Slaurith was thrown down by the impact, tossed to the floor as though he had been kicked by a horse. The grey skin of his face pulled back into an inhuman mask of rage. Before Urbaal could close upon him, Slaurith lunged up from the floor, crashing against Urbaal, driving the Chosen against the flagstones.

  Urbaal felt Slaurith’s corpse-breath against him as the Chaos lord pressed the edge of the huge sword against his neck, trying to strangle his enemy. Urbaal growled back at Slaurith, bringing his legs underneath the Chaos lord, flinging him back with a powerful thrust.

  Urbaal coughed as he forced air down his savaged throat, bracing himself as Slaurith came at him again. An upward shift of his sword caught Slaurith’s descending blade before it could split the Chosen’s skull. Urbaal threw his whole body behind the parry, pushing Slaurith back as he regained his feet.

  The Chaos lord staggered back, upsetting his throne and the sword stand behind it. Angrily he kicked the broken stand at the advancing Urbaal, trying to trip his enemy. Urbaal brought his sword slashing down, shattering the stand into bony splinters.

  It was the distraction Slaurith had counted upon. A vengeful laugh hissing from his withered mouth, the Chaos lord lunged at Urbaal, the double-handed sword smashing down. Urbaal twisted his body beneath the heavy blade, slamming his helm into Slaurith’s chest, forcing him back. Slaurith brought the spiked pommel of his sword crashing into Urbaal’s head, trying to smash him into the floor. Urbaal’s body slumped beneath the blow, slamming hard into the flagstones.

  Lord Slaurith smiled malignantly and raised his heavy sword above his head, poised to bring it down in a final, butchering blow against his prone enemy. The look of triumph wilted on the mummified face as his stunned foe suddenly twisted beneath him. Urbaal’s glowing blade slammed into Slaurith’s gut, biting through the thick bronze plate to skewer the withered organs within.

  Urbaal kicked the legs out from under his shocked enemy, spilling him to the floor. He sneered at Slaurith and wrenched his sword free from the Chaos lord’s belly. ‘Your god may be stronger,’ Urbaal told Slaurith, ‘but mine doesn’t fight fair.’

  Slaurith snarled, trying to raise himself to his feet. Urbaal slammed his boot against the side of the Chaos lord’s head, smashing him to the floor.

  A great rumbling shook the Arena of Fury, a screeching wail like the howls of the damned rippled through the blood-stink of the cavern. As the quaking became more intense, the wailing was drowned out by a deep, deafening roar. The roar raged across the Arena, venting its spectral fury against the walls. Stones slammed to the floor of the cavern or sizzled in the molten
trench. With a great groan, the symbol of the Blood God shattered, raining from the ceiling in a stream of metal slivers. The breaking of the symbol seemed to cause the blood-stink to dissipate and the phantom roar to fade into nothingness.

  Urbaal’s sword blazed with fire as the malign influence of Khorne was broken and the magic of the Changer again held sway. He stared grimly into Slaurith’s cadaverous features. ‘It seems the Blood God has abandoned you. Few gods have the stomach to tolerate a weakling.’ The Chosen lifted his sword, poised to drive it into the fallen warlord’s face.

  ‘Don’t kill him!’ Vakaan’s voice shrieked. The magus on his daemonic disc came diving from the height of the arena to hover above the balcony. The sorcerer’s staff was raised, as though to bring it cracking against Urbaal’s head.

  ‘I have not forgotten,’ Urbaal growled. He gave the groaning Slaurith another kick of his boot. ‘But whatever magic you think to work, it had best be quick.’

  Vakaan nodded in understanding. A stamp of his boot and the disc lowered, hovering only a few inches from the floor. The magus looked over at the chained figure of Dolchir the archmage. ‘I will need him also.’

  Beblieth came forward, wiping the blood of the flayed ones from her face. She smirked as she heard the words of the magus. The witch elf stalked towards the archmage, her dagger raised.

  ‘Alive,’ Vakaan warned her.

  A flicker of disappointment passed across Beblieth’s features. She bent down over Dolchir, pressing the point of her dagger between the links of his chains. ‘Whatever the human does to you, asur, know I would have done worse,’ she hissed in the high elf’s ear.

  A deft twist of her wrist snapped the bronze chain. She lifted the battered Dolchir to his feet. The high elf had suffered greatly at the hands and paws of the Khorne worshippers. Ugly cuts marked his face, deep trenches gouged into cheeks and forehead in crude approximation of the skull-rune. The once pristine robes of the archmage were now little more than dirty grey rags, clumps of dried blood caked into the hem. His arm, snapped and crooked, was cradled against his breast. Beblieth seized the archmage by his broken limb, wrenching it straight with a sadistic tug. Dolchir’s hollow eyes gleamed with pain, a tremble of suffering that pulled at his gashed face. The witch elf scowled at the high elf’s effort to retain his dignity then shoved him towards Vakaan. The archmage stumbled and sprawled just beyond the snapping fangs of the disc’s underbelly.