by Warhammer
This time the standard bearer did as he was asked without question. The outer ends of the Skullbrands’ line closed inwards to form a denser mass of warriors three rows deep. After another fifty paces several hundred warriors to each side angled their advance away from Threx’s party, creating a gap of some thirty or forty paces between them.
Ahead, the Korchians waited, none of them tempted forward to aid the youngbloods.
‘I hear that the Aspirians use archers in battle,’ Vourza said casually, swiping her blade at the grass as she walked.
‘Bows are for hunting, not fighting,’ Threx replied. ‘Where’s the glory in killing a foe when you can’t see the life fall from their eyes?’
‘They have even stranger weapons in Bataar,’ said Nerxes. ‘Tubes that throw fire and huge bows mounted on the backs of great beasts.’
‘Aye, and their city floats on a bed of magic, it’s said,’ added Vourza. ‘My grandmother says she saw it once, long ago.’
‘Your grandmother saw a lot,’ said Threx. ‘Most of it at the bottom of a cup!’
Vourza laughed with them, for the stamina of her grandmother on a feast night had been a legend in itself – a trait her granddaughter seemed to have inherited.
‘There are tribes with spell-wielders, out to the east,’ Nerxes continued. ‘And there’s the Golvarians, of course.’
‘Corpse-fiends,’ grunted Foraza. ‘Never liked Golvarians.’
‘One day they’ll hear of the Skullbrands,’ Threx assured them. ‘It starts today, the rebirth of our people. No more jokes at our expense.’
‘One day soon,’ said Vourza.
‘Glory to the Skullbrands!’ roared Threx. The cry echoed from the mouths of the warriors around him, followed by a single crash of weapons.
They were only a hundred and fifty paces from the Korchians now. The youngbloods, the two-thirds of them that had not been cut down in their clash with Gaizan’s warriors, raced back towards the main line rather than be trapped between the advancing Skullbrands and the loop of the river. The far ends of Yourag’s force started forward slowly, curving the line towards the oncoming horde.
‘Is that good?’ Threx called to Nerxes. ‘Do we want them to do that?’
‘I think so…’
The ground was levelling quickly, the grass underfoot shortened by the grazing herds. Threx could see the faces of the men and women opposite, the diamond-pattern devices on their rectangular shields, the curve of bronze or iron armour on arms and legs. Directly ahead waited Yourag with his giant guards, a knot of metal and red in the centre of the line.
‘Can we charge yet, cousin?’ he asked, adjusting his sweaty grip on the axe haft. ‘I think we need to charge.’
In answer, Nerxes pointed his axe at the enemy. ‘Whenever you like, cousin!’
‘Blood-kin, time for glory! Charge!’ The command left Threx’s lips as he broke into a run, passing quickly along the line from throat to throat until it rolled down the hill with him. A defiant, short bellow thundered from the Korchians’ line as they readied shields and presented spears and swords.
Threx gave one last glance to the men and women around him. The two flanking forces were peeling away, aiming towards the ends of the lines, not the centre. The furthest flank of Yourag’s army flexed to meet it but the nearest, on the bank of the river, could not advance further without breaking away from the waterside, where Gaizan’s warriors had taken up position ready to dash forward if there was an opening.
Dead ahead the Korchians could do nothing but either wait for the attack or break their line with a counter-charge. Yourag and his ogor-like protectors were rooted to the spot as Threx pounded straight at them.
‘You’re a genius, cousin,’ he laughed, picking up speed.
For a few moments Threx felt as if he were drowning in noise. His mind flashed back to the time when, as a young child, he had fallen into the rapids near the village, and been tossed and thrown through water and rocks. Around him whirled Korchian blades, the heat of bodies, enraged shouts and the crash of metal a near-physical pressure. At his back and sides his companions pushed on, forcing a way into the thick of the enemy. Threx swung his axe upwards, smashing aside the shield of a Korchian woman. Nerxes stepped forward and buried the head of his weapon into her shoulder. She fell back into the throng as though swallowed by the waves of battle, replaced by a man with burnished plate and a skirt of mail already spattered with blood.
Leaning away from the Korchian’s sword thrust, Threx batted aside the man’s weapon, eyes flicking between him and the press of bodies as he searched for the banner of Yourag.
He caught the next blow on the long haft of his axe, turned the weapon and beheaded the Korchian in one fluid movement, stepping forward with the momentum of the attack.
‘Yourag is mine!’ he bellowed as a reminder to his warriors.
‘This way,’ growled Foraza. He still held Threx’s banner aloft while his long sword weaved a deadly pattern before him.
Led by the standard bearer, the knot of Skullbrand veterans shifted to the right, angling their attack against the Korchian line. Formation was giving way to individual battles as warriors were pushed together and then separated, the battle-line splintering into dozens of personal duels.
With a roar, Foraza took the arm off a foe with two vicious hacks, shouldering the screaming man aside to make room for Vourza. She slashed the legs out from under another, and suddenly the Korchian line seemed to fray and then break, parting before the thrust of Threx’s hardened fighters.
‘This way,’ he roared, waving his axe towards the gilded standard swaying above the fighting to their right.
Not caring for what happened behind him, Threx darted forward, trusting his companions to follow, intent upon the group of red-and-bronze-clad Korchians.
‘Yourag!’ He bellowed the challenge, readying his axe as he covered the ground with swift strides.
Two of the Korchian giants peeled away from the fight and turned on Threx, each carrying a broadsword and a rectangular shield that covered them from knee to throat.
Another Korchian burst from the fighting, hurling herself at Threx with a hoarse yell. Threx skidded and ducked beneath the wild blow, bringing his axe up between the woman’s body and arm, the blade biting deep into her shoulder from below. He straightened and kicked, knocking her shrieking from his weapon, and then turned to confront the two bodyguards.
He sidestepped left and then darted right, trying to isolate one of them as he swept his axe overhead, looking to strike at the helmed head behind the tower shield. The giant thrust forward with surprising speed, smashing Threx from his feet with the iron boss of his pavise.
Threx landed and rolled backwards, bringing his axe up to ward away the following blow. Steel crashed and he was sent reeling again, staggering a few paces away before falling to one knee.
Something wet and warm coated his left leg. He looked down. Crimson was spilling down his thigh from a cut just below the ribs.
Shapes blurred for a few heartbeats, shadows surrounding him with noise and movement. He picked out Foraza’s deep bellow and the far higher-pitched war-shriek of Vourza. A shadow approached and through a haze he recognised Nerxes.
‘Cousin…?’ Nerxes filled the single word with all of his concern, his face a mask of dread.
Losing was impossible. Threx would not be defeated, not while he still drew breath. Seeing the fear in his cousin’s eyes, and pity perhaps, spurred Threx to action.
‘It’s nothing,’ Threx growled, pushing his cousin away as he regained his feet. He was losing some feeling in his left side but knew that had the blow been truly mortal he would be dead already.
‘You’re–’
‘Ready to fight,’ Threx cut him off, limping forward. He glanced at his wound. ‘This? This is nothing. Even if I’d lost my leg I’d still beat Yourag.’
Foraza was using the standard to fend off one of the giants, blade flicking out to counter the Korchian’s thrust
s. The other lay in the cropped grass, a short distance away, fending off Vourza’s attempts to finish him. More of the muscular figures were closing from the direction of the battle-line, breaking from the fighting to come to the aid of their lord.
‘We don’t have time – the wings of the Korchian line are closing in,’ said Nerxes. ‘It’s too late.’
‘Never,’ snarled Threx, flexing his grip on his axe. He broke into a lopsided run, bursting past Foraza and his large foe without any thought of defending himself. The Korchian was too slow, distracted by the banner bearer, his blow thudding into the earth as Threx dived forward, evading the blade.
He came to his feet face-to-face with Yourag. The Korchian chieftain had his triangular sword in hand, a buckler moulded into a skull design enclosing his other fist. It was this that crashed against Threx’s upraised axe. The sword followed quickly, darting for his throat, but he sidestepped, using the flat of the axe to force Yourag back a step. Gaining this small space, Threx swung hard, aiming not for Yourag but the part of his foe’s sword where the blade sat in the short quillons. The edge of the axe caught the triangular blade hard, snapping it from the tang that kept it embedded in the hilt.
Yourag’s face was a picture of shock as the broken sword blade tumbled to the grass, its sharp tip flashing. Threx did not hesitate but smashed the eye of the axe-head forward into the point of Yourag’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
‘Yield!’ roared Threx, stamping on the chieftain’s left arm to pin his buckler down, axe raised. ‘Offer your regret!’
Yourag’s fear became a momentary defiance, hatred filling his eyes, until Threx offered the edge of his axe towards the Korchian’s neck.
‘I crave,’ wailed Yourag, spirit broken, eyes fixed on the axe’s blade. ‘I am sorry!’
Around them the sounds of fighting died down as warriors on both sides realised the Korchian leader was capitulating. Threx glanced to his left and saw Foraza, Nerxes, Vourza and many Skullbrands; to the right a gathering crowd of dejected Korchians.
‘Say it for all to hear, Yourag of the Korchians.’ Threx grinned, enjoying the moment.
‘I apologise for calling your mother a bloated sow,’ groaned Yourag, trembling as his gaze moved to meet Threx’s eyes.
‘Louder,’ said the Skullbrands’ leader.
‘I apologise for calling your mother a bloated sow!’ Yourag shouted between sobs.
‘Who is victor here?’
Yourag’s eyes narrowed and it seemed as though he would not answer.
‘Who has the victory here?’ the Skullbrand demanded with another twist of the axe.
‘Threx Skullbrand,’ snarled Yourag, raising his voice. ‘Threx Skullbrand is the victor here!’
The painter moved efficiently but quietly, first checking the small traps set in the trees around the cave. A couple of them had been sprung but the creatures within had already been taken by larger animals happening upon an easy meal. A third held the fresh corpse of a long, slender rodent, the loop of cord about its throat biting deep into the grey fur.
He dragged the noose open, stuffed the dead animal in a small sack and then reset the snare, ears alert to any change in the sounds of the forest. As skittish as the creatures that leapt through the branches and twined around the boles, he moved from trunk to trunk, always on the lookout, eyes wide and constantly moving.
He dug out a few of the more edible roots from the orange-brown earth, adding them to the food sack. It was too early for any fruit to harvest, but he picked the petals from the early summer flowers to crush for his painting. He needed more red. A lot more.
On the way back he circled towards the large game trail that wound further down the hillside. Sometimes the gor-folk followed the winding track, leaving broken weapons or other scraps that could be put to use. The painter did not venture too far, always glancing back up through the canopy to orientate himself with the craggy black pinnacle that rose above his cave.
Finding nothing, he was about to start back, collecting fallen branches for the fire. He stooped to pick up a thick limb, broken off by the winds that had howled a few days ago, but froze even as he laid the tips of his fingers upon it.
He smelled blood.
Not the taint that haunted him after waking from his future-dreams, but fresh, hot blood.
He listened intently, turning his head slowly to windward, ears seeking something else among the swish of leaves and the distant hissing of the river.
Above a reddish-leaved bush about a dozen paces away, a short, curved black horn was visible against the pale bole of a tree. A grunt accompanied a fresh rustle of leaves, followed by a wet slurping.
The painter did not move, heart thrashing in his chest. He dared to drag his gaze away to take stock of his surroundings, looking for the route that would take him to the greatest concealment in the shortest time.
A snarl brought his eyes snapping back to the red bush, the branches of which were quivering now from the movement of the gor-man beyond. Easing himself fractionally forward the painter saw the beast-figure more clearly. It was a small one, shorter than him, though the arm he could see was taut with more muscle than his own limbs. It held the bloodied remnants of a rabbit in a clawed hand, which it raised to red-smeared lips in a face that looked like a nightmarish breed of goat and human.
The painter vaguely remembered that there had been wars fought to kill all of the gor-folk, long before he had been born. Maybe the armies of the Hammerlord had not reached this far into the forests, or perhaps scattered remnants of the gor-folk had fled into the depths from elsewhere over the many years. Nobody came this far into the woods any more.
It was why he lived here, away from the prying of those that had cast him out.
Struck by a strange thought, he reached up to his scalp and ran a hand across the bald skin.
No horns there.
Yes, he was a man, not a beast.
The gor-man straightened a little, resting back on its furred haunches, and sniffed the air, head turning slowly back and forth. In moments it would look towards the painter.
He wished he’d brought the spear.
Sense told him to run as fast and far as possible but his legs would not respond.
A different instinct took over, surging from the deepest part of him, the dark interior that gave birth to the dreams. His fingers snatched up the branch with a will of their own and he was dashing towards the bush before he knew what he was doing.
Hearing him, the gor-man started to turn with a surprised grumble, but he was fast and desperate. The thick tree limb smashed into the side of the creature’s jaw, shattering wood and bone, hurling the gor-man backwards.
The painter pounced into the falling beast-kin, driving the ragged end of the branch into its chest, pushing and pushing as it landed on its back, feeling the pressure of splintered wood warring against bone. The stick snapped first and he fell sideways into the creature.
Clawed fingers seized his throat, dragging him close into an exhalation of foetid, blood-tinged breath.
Panicked, the painter did not try to prise the shackle-strong grip but instead seized the closest horn, pulling the gor-man’s head backwards to expose its own throat. With a feral snarl he buried his teeth into its thick skin, biting with all of his strength, arching his back as he tore away a chunk of flesh.
Blood covered them both, slicking the creature’s dying grip as its fingers loosened about the painter. He smashed the remains of the branch into the gor-man’s face and then threw himself away, panting fiercely.
The beast rolled, one leg twitching violently through the scrubby undergrowth, the last spurts of arterial blood becoming a dribble of red leaking into the brown mulch.
Fingers flexing, lungs bursting, the painter stared at the dead thing with a mixture of horror and fascination. The lifeblood seemed to sparkle as it pooled and he crawled forward until he could see his haggard reflection in the thickening fluid. The smell of it brought a rush of memories, se
nding him swirling back into recollection of the blood-soaked dreams that he tried to paint on the walls of the cave.
A coughing bark in the distance brought him out of his entranced state. Gor-folk didn’t hunt alone and this small one must have sneaked off to enjoy its kill away from its larger kin.
Other grunting shouts and yapping echoed back through the woodlands, coming from behind and to the right, between him and the cave.
The painter wasn’t the only one that could smell blood on the air.
The crack of snapping twigs underfoot grew louder. He caught a glimpse of something moving in the shadows beneath the tree canopy and dropped to all fours, hoping it had not seen him.
He really wished he’d brought the spear.
CHAPTER FOUR
Marolin found Athol standing in the darkness not far from the firelight, as he stared up at the swirl of stars and light above. His whole body trembled in reaction to the confrontation. Alone, one against another, there was none to match his coolness. Some said the cold water of the distant rivers ran in his veins, not hot blood. But to stand up to his own people, to weather their veiled insults, accept their ignorant posturing and face down their belligerence was a far more trying task.
He tried to push the thoughts from his head.
The view above was not one his ancestors had known. This was not the land where the Khul had first risen to prominence. How had it been for those first folk that had crossed through the gate and come to the Flamescar? Had that alien sky been a source of wonder or terror?
A rainbow-like miasma danced away to the south, which he had learned from the Aridians was a confluence of two other celestial phenomena known as the Sword and the Shield; in turn they had been taught this from Aspirian astrologers. The Aspirians had been given this information, so they claimed, by the God-hero Sigmar himself. There were other lights and glimmers, glittering fogs and fiery comets that tracked unevenly across the skies. Looking upon the vastness he knew in his head that there were other worlds beyond, could recite the songs from his fore-folk that spoke of a place very different from this one, where the Khul had risen from the embers of an ancient war. But his heart could not comprehend the idea. It felt right to be here, as though the wider universe had placed him on the Flamescar Plateau.
