Warhammer - The Cold Hand of Betrayal

by Marc Gascoigne, Christian Dunn (ed) (lit)

  'I am Reya, lord.' the young woman continued, holding them tight to her breast. 'I am a servant of Shallya, a healer of the sick. I run this simple hospice in order to treat the child victims of the red pox here in the border regions.

  The pox has a hold on these borderlands, sir knight. Shallya has granted me the power to heal the young, though every act of mercy must be made through sacrifice. My own state of health is that sacrifice. I am dying.'

  Ulgoth found himself backing away at the very mention of the red pox, recoiling in the presence of the blighted woman. Behind him, the Marauders began to grow agitated, almost impatient.

  'Hurry, sire,' he heard Reya wail, her thin voiced strained and broken. 'I fear the effects of the prayer may begin to subside at any time. I fear the darkness may return.'

  His face tightened. The particulars of his current predicament no longer mattered. He understood now, the realisation slowly seeping into his mind. Somehow Shallya had guided him to this place of terror and bloodshed, this forest on the northern borders of the Empire. He had a purpose here, this much was clear.

  It was enough.

  'Fear not, my lady. Shallya's choice was a wise one. This scum will not have their way with you or your charges while ever I draw breath.'

  He could feel the righteous fury begin to rise from deep within him like a living thing now, an avatar of wrath and revulsion that bound his soul to the gods. Every last one of the foul filth before him would feel the wrath of Ulgoth.

  He could hear the rabble now, laughing and joking amongst themselves, mocking him with their ignorance. He would make them pay.

  'What is it? Has your interest in the priestess bitch waned now you've looked upon her pox-ridden form?' He shuddered as he heard this, his head turning slowly to face the gathered enemy.

  The warrior responsible was a huge brute, his massive frame wrapped in the pelts of beastmen and the leathered skins of human enemies. His head was a mass of shaggy greying hair, the matted tresses hanging about his scar-laced face in braids and lank knots.

  His single remaining eye glistened as he noticed Ulgoth's striding reaction, the cruel smile spread across his lips widening. The others about him roared their approval as they heard this, a cacophony of jeers and whooping laughter rising up across the throng once again, a reaction that served only to goad the barbarian on to express further obscenities.

  'Ah, perhaps the female is not to your taste, blighted or otherwise!' the colossus barked, his blackened teeth bared in a malicious grin. 'Perhaps you no longer desire mortal flesh! I sense it now! I sense you truckle to the touch of the daemon, yes?' The rest of the mob erupted once more in cacophonous laughter.

  Ulgoth shuddered with rage, his face reddening. To be insulted by a disciple of the Ruinous Powers was an insult no loyal warrior of the Empire could bring himself to bear. He started forward, his fingers tightening around the hilt of the spear once more. A few of those before him seemed to notice this as he neared, their malicious smiles beginning to fade, replaced by expressions of curious uncertainty.

  He did not care, for now the Righteous Fury was upon him.

  The knight broke into a run and thrust his arm back, a scream of absolute and utter rage shaking his taut, muscled features. He threw his armoured fist forward and flung the spear, driving it into the neck of the profane steed with such unrestrained force that the animal reared back, screaming and baying.

  The warrior fell to the floor as the creature smashed down into the Marauders behind, scattering those it did not crush. The shrill of singing metal being drawn cleaved the air as Ulgoth strode over the downed warrior, roaring and bellowing like a madman as he drew his own sword. He fell to one knee and swung his blade around and down into the Marauder's fur-lined chest, both hands tight around the hilt. Shouts and cries of shocked surprise rose up from the rest of the throng as they observed the death of their comrade, followed a heartbeat later by a collective roar of guttural anger.

  The debased berserkers began to realise what was happening as if for the first time. A sudden surge of hostile movement passed through the Northmen as they responded to the unexpected threat, shock slowly but surely replacing anger.

  Ulgoth rose, his eyes wide and terrible, his sweat-beaded face quivering with righteous rage. He thrust his arm out and began to turn on his heel slowly, his sword held out before him in a clear gesture of threat, his silvered plate armour glistening with the blood of the heretic.

  'Hear me, scum! Your rampage is at an end. You will no longer plague the forests of the Empire. I am Ulgoth, Knight Panther, warrior of the Inner Circle. By Sigmar, I swear I will see each and every one of you whoresons wet my blade before the setting of the sun!'

  The Marauders howled as they heard this, driven almost to madness by the anger burning within their dark hearts. A sea of rusted pike heads surged forward to meet him, clattering and shaking as they drove forward.

  Ulgoth swept his shield out before him and batted the weapons aside, following a heartbeat later with his singing blade. A number of pike heads clattered and fell away, severed by the keen edge. He dug his heels into the ground as he felt a number of the bladed spars slam into the thick plate of his suit, though he did not worry. Such magnificent armour was proof against these corrupt, rusting weapons.

  He countered again, driving the pikemen back amid a storm of wide sweeping lunges. Northmen screamed and fell, some bisected cleanly, others clutching opened bellies or bleeding stumps. Heads rolled and throats gurgled and within moments Ulgoth found himself standing at the centre of a small clearing, a scattering of bloodied bodies strewn around him.

  A sea of scarred, filth-laden faces stared back, bloodshot eyes wide with shock, throats closed with disbelief. He raised his shield to his chest and thrust his sword out before him, his wild eyes finding each face in turn.

  'Sigmar Himself steels my soul! Myrmidia guides my hand! Mighty Ulric stokes the fires of my rage! The gods themselves lend their strength to me, filth! Who will be the next to test my mettle? Who will be the next to throw themselves upon my blade?'

  The clattering of hooves began to echo through the forest as the horsemen began to encircle the scene, their coarse cries drifting through the surrounding trees as they overcame their shock. He flinched and grunted as a brace of hissing arrows sailed towards him and raised his shield, halting their progress with a splintering of wood.

  Before him the two huge brute handlers snarled unintelligibly and cast the heavy chains to the floor, staggering back as they loosed the baying hounds.

  The great slavering beasts did not advance. They howled and whined, hesitant to attack. Their bestial eyes flashed with wild fear as they regarded the gallant knight. Again and again they started forward, only to turn aside, whimpering and whining in fearful confusion.

  The pack masters spat obscenities and drew their cruel barbed lashes across the horde of matted fur, incensed by their hesitance.

  Ulgoth lunged forward and into them, suffering no such ambivalence. His bright blade flashed from left to right as he hacked his way through bestial flesh, each swing felling another beast. The hounds retaliated albeit hesitantly, vice-like jaws snapping and clawed paws swiping at the warrior, though their efforts were as nothing. The creatures paled before the knight, falling like leaves before the wind.

  He turned briefly to see the priestess watching, still rooted to the spot. Her mouth moved swiftly and silently as if in whispered prayer, her efforts no doubt responsible for the confusion of the canine beasts. He promised himself that he would not allow her efforts time to fail.

  He spun on his heel and swept his sword before him, taking the heads of the two handlers with one almighty blow. Even as the bodies fell to their knees amid a spray of blood he felt a number of treacherous arrows slam into him, the unexpected assault snatching his breath but for a moment. Hot fingers of pain stabbed into his chest and shoulder where the vicious projectiles had managed to penetrate his armour.

  He would not fall. He wo
uld not falter. It was the cries and whoops of insane bloodlust rising up around him that steeled his resolve and kept him on his feet.

  He looked up to see a wall of screaming, howling malice sprinting towards him, a storm of howling feral hatred. Chaos berserkers, insane with bloodlust, a bloodlust fuelled by the shuddering standard flapping in the breeze behind them.

  Ulgoth's eyes left the charging horde for a moment as he looked upon that debased and wicked thing, its roiling leathered surface alive with smouldering malice.

  The seven hollering abominations descended upon him in the centre of the glade, a storm of spiked flails and bladed chains, spittle-lined mouths and tattooed bodies. The stink of sweat and blood burned his nostrils as he braced himself, ready to repel the attackers.

  Behind him the priestess began to mutter softly beneath her breath, her words lost amid the tumult. It was as if the breeze itself sang to him, the very breath of Shallya passing through his body, and he lifted his eyes as the terrible howling abated almost instantly.

  He watched with astonishment as the insane warriors faltered, their mouths closing slowly, their lurching advance grinding to a halt. They came to a standstill as one as a wave of calm swept over them, soil and leaf-mulch dancing around their feet, the fire in their eyes suddenly dimmed.

  Chains clanged and blades rattled as they hit the floor, the fingers that had held them loosening. Bare chests still heaved, almost as if the black hearts within had not yet come to realise the sudden arrest of their efforts. The priestess, Reya. This was her doing, it had to be.

  He snarled and lunged for the swaying berserkers, lifting his blooded sword high above his head to bring it down into the meaty shoulder of the nearest warrior. The man screamed as the blade bit deep into his flesh, his escaping blood painting Ulgoth's exotic furs red as the blow drove him to his knees.

  The death of their comrade seemed to stir the mystified warriors and they started to tense, their glazed eyes blinking.

  Ulgoth pulled his blade free and felled another berserker with a swift turn, sending his scarred, bearded head spinning away amongst the others.

  SOMEWHERE BEHIND HIM he felt the sacrilegious powers of the standard flare and intensify, sending a fresh wave of burning rage through the stunned madmen. The wave of boiling anger passed through him and he shuddered, recognising the insidious touch of the Ruinous Powers.

  The Chaos warriors howled and convulsed, invigorated anew. A swift and powerful blow smashed against his shield, followed by another and another. He turned and countered, parting a hand and its weapon from the wrist of the owner.

  His ears began to ring with the maddened whoops and cries of the warriors as another blow landed heavily upon his shield, smashing the thick painted wood to splinters. He drove the remnants of the disintegrating wood into the bare neck of the attacker and then cried out as something large and heavy smashed the golden feline helm from his head. He was faltering again but he would not fail his gods.

  A red rage descended over Ulgoth's eyes, a boiling and palpable anger that roared in his ears and shook his punished body. He was only dimly aware of the deep vibration of his breastbone as he unleashed a scream of utter fury, the terrible sound no more than white noise in his own ears.

  He started forward into the storm of shifting flesh, swinging his sword around his head in a wide arc. Scraps of lank fur and body matter enveloped him as he advanced, using his own armoured forearm to parry the blows of the snarling warriors. His bare face was a rictus of fury, his teeth bared, his eyes wide and lost.

  'Misbelievers! Heretics! Morr shall find your tainted souls waiting bloodied at his gates!'

  He lost himself then for a moment, his eyes dimming as the rage building within him was unleashed. Screams of pain assailed his ears as he lunged on, striking and turning, swinging his sword about him in a wild, indiscriminate storm of retaliation. Blows rained against his armour and yet he was barely aware of them, lost as he was in undiluted rage.

  The next thing he felt was the ground at his back, driving the breath from his lungs. The wet remains of the lunatic warriors lay scattered about him, little more than twisted and leaking sacks of angular flesh, broken, bloodied and done. As the anger began to drain away he became aware of his injuries, the dull pain gradually increasing as the buzzing in his ears dissipated.

  Cries of disbelief rose up from the surviving Marauders, sounds that even now seemed distant and detached. A veil of blackness began to descend over his eyes, the bright sunlight streaming through the canopy dimming with the passing of each heartbeat. No matter how hard he tried, he found himself unable to lift even his head, let alone the sword still clutched in his hand.

  The ground beneath him shook under the weight of the circling steeds, their bewildered riders still seemingly unsure of what to do next, hooves and dark sinuous legs flashing past his fading vision.

  Beneficent goddess, healing mother, I call to you once more. Lend your strength to this punished knight. Dull his pain and wash away his fatigue. Breathe life into his ravaged form once more so that he may continue to champion your cause.

  He flinched. Somewhere deep in his mind he could hear Reya's sweet voice once again, as soft and soothing as music and yet stronger than any other sound about him.

  As she continued to pray he could feel the effects of her incantation begin to wash over his aching form like a warm treacle, dimming the pain that wracked his body. His blood became fire in his veins, a charged surge of invigorating warmth that seemed to ignite every muscle at once. He swore that he could feel the embrace of the goddess herself around him. Arms that were tender and yet stronger than any he had ever felt enveloped him and picked him up, lifting his buckled, blood-flecked form up from its prone position and onto its feet.

  He opened his eyes and bared his teeth as he looked out upon the face of the astonished Marauder, the warrior's rusted axe barely an inch from his face. The mounted heretic reeled back in shock as Ulgoth raised his sword, thrust his arm forward and impaled him for his troubles, this sudden attack causing the shocked animal beneath him to rear up and throw the skewered body to the ground.

  'Not one of you shall escape my wrath!' he raged, ignoring the brace of arrows that struck him even as he pulled his blade free.

  'You will all answer to me! You had better pray to Shallya to grant you the mercy that I cannot!'

  He watched as the panicked Marauders hauled at the reins, bringing their steeds about. Even as the standard bearer and the two archers made to leave he plucked the fallen axe from the hand of the dead warrior beneath him and hurled it, striking one of the unfortunate archers from the saddle.

  'Your fates were sealed the moment you made war on the Empire! You will not escape retribution!'

  Sword in hand he grabbed the reins of the black mount and hauled himself up onto its back, ignoring the pain that had begun to wrack his body once more. He heaved the creature around and dug his heels into its flanks, unstoppable now.

  Within moments he had caught up with the archer and, his eyes fixed upon the blasphemous standard before him, he spun the sword in his hand and drove it through the man's neck as he passed, leaving the blade and its victim behind.

  'Run to the ends of the world if you must, servant of filth! I will be at your heel!'

  The surviving Marauder glanced behind him and gasped, his scarred face slackening. He turned back and began to shout and holler at his mount, urging it to pick up speed, the banner furled and laid across his shoulder.

  Rider and mount had advanced no more than a few strides into the trees when something landed behind him, its cold, crushing weight pressed against his back.

  Armoured fingers closed around his neck and he cried out, snatching at the sword fastened to his waist. Cold armoured fingers closed around his mouth, wet with blood.

  A red mist descended over his eyes as he felt himself falling from the panicked mount, the dead Marauder in his grasp. A terrible guttural screaming filled his ears, shaking him to his
very core. The air around him seemed to burn with black rage, the fallen standard at his side shuddering and flapping as it fought his desperate grasp. The canopy above seemed to shake and thrash, each branch a flailing fist of red rage. The skies beyond were red, the colour of spilled blood. The breeze became a gale, a flaying storm of hot, sulphured wind, howling as it tore at his exposed face. He felt his fingers close around the vibrating cloth and he began to tear, ignoring the sickening stench of his own burning flesh as the fingers of his gauntlets began to glow red-hot.

  Warrior?

  He flinched, the distant, soothing voice drifting through his mind.

  Warrior? Open your eyes.

  He did so and the light of the world flooded in, the excruciating pain following a heartbeat later. Everything was so bright, too bright to bear. The tops of the trees were now little more than black shadows, indistinct and ominous against the bright, blinding sunlight. The raging pain coursed through him, its cruel serrated fingers tight around his ravaged body.

  With no little effort he lifted his gauntleted hands to his face, the stinging pain causing his lips to draw back over his teeth. They were blackened and burned, almost as if he had stood with them in a brazier, the metal and chainmail twisted and black with smouldering soot.

  'Rest, brave warrior. You are victorious.'

  The pain dulled almost at once and he turned his head to see the priestess kneeling beside him, her slight frame enveloped by the streaming sunlight. What remained of the foul standard lay beneath her, tattered and torn, its unholy influence banished. Reya ran her eyes slowly over his prone body, her hands hovering over the twisted and buckled mess of armour. She sighed softly.

  'You tore the debased banner apart with your hands. This last act was too much to bear, even for you. You are dying.' With that she seemed to pause for a moment, turning to watch the children as they scurried up to her and began to drag the smouldering remnants of the blackened banner away to be disposed of.