by Warhammer
Finally, Athol bowed before the onslaught of the presence, his eyes streaming, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the words laid upon him. Sweat slicked his skin and there was an ache in his bones as though his body were the weight of the mountain.
‘I… am…’
YOU ARE FEEBLE. THE KHUL WERE ONCE MY BLADE EDGE, THE TIP OF THE SPEAR, THE SPIKE OF THE MACE. NOW BLUNTED AND USELESS. WIELDED BY A LESS WORTHY HAND.
The words stung Athol, the rejection like ice in his veins. He rejected the judgement. Gritting his teeth, he forced his head up, straining every muscle in his neck to look at the thing that had taken over Lashkar. It seemed to tower over him, a column of boiling blood and fire with the faint silhouette of a man within. Two black pits for eyes narrowed and regarded him with immortal hatred.
DEFIANCE?
Athol pushed himself to a crouch, muscles burning with effort, sinews straining in every joint. With a trembling hand, he lifted his spear above his head, the war cry of his people screamed into the thunderous tumult of the Blood God’s presence.
‘Ava-Khul! Ava-Khul! Ava-Khul!’
A bolt of golden fire leapt from the apparition and struck Athol in the chest, hurling him across the cauldron of the shrine. A snaking tendril of black smoke and roiling molten brass formed in the air, pinning him down to the hard rock.
I CAN GIVE YOU THE ARMY YOU SEEK, KHUL. I CAN MAKE YOU STRONGER THAN ANY MORTAL IN THIS REALM. I CAN GRANT YOU IMMORTALITY, A HUNDRED LIFETIMES TO ACCOMPLISH YOUR DREAMS.
‘Yes… Yes, I want that,’ snarled Athol. He pictured an army crushing the Tithemasters, sweeping all of the enemies of the Khul from the Flamescar Plateau. There would be no enemy that could threaten his people again.
IT IS NOT A GIFT, BUT A BARGAIN. YOU SHALL NOT GROW OLD NOR DIE, AND YOUR BODY SHALL WEAR THE WORST OF WOUNDS AND LIVE. BUT IF EVER YOUR HEAD COMES AWAY FROM YOUR NECK, ALL WILL END. YOUR SKULL IS MINE AND I SHALL TAKE IT WHEN SEVERED.
‘I…’ Athol’s words were lost as Khorne’s booming words filled every part of him.
I WILL NOT TRICK YOU. YOU WILL SURRENDER TO ME AND I WILL GIVE YOU THE POWER YOU NEED TO DEFEAT YOUR FOES. ALL FOES. BUT YOU SHALL BE MINE. I SHALL BE IN YOU. EVERY VICTORY YOU WIN WILL BE MY VICTORY.
Athol’s eyes misted, his vision filling with scenes of bloody conquest as though Lashkar’s paintings had come to life. He felt tears dribble down his cheeks and lifted a finger to touch his face, coming away with a spot of blood on the tip.
He sought to picture Marolin and Eruil, searching his memory for them amidst an unending torrent of carnage. His other hand gripped tight to the hilt of the half-sword, seeking its bound leather as a piece of the real world, bringing him back to the stone circle.
IF YOU KNOW DEFEAT, I WILL ABANDON YOU. YOUR BODY WILL CHANGE, FOR YOU WILL NOT BE MORTAL ANY LONGER. THIS BLESSING WILL NOT BE UPON YOUR KIN, UNLESS THEY MAKE SUCH A BARGAIN THEMSELVES. IN TIME THEY WILL AGE AND DIE. YOUR PEOPLE WILL BECOME AS DUST AND YOU WILL OUTLIVE THEM.
‘And if I do not pledge myself to you?’
YOU WILL RETURN TO YOUR PEOPLE, TO SEE THEM DIE OR BE ENSLAVED. ANOTHER POWER SEEKS YOU NOW, SENSING MY STRENGTH IN YOU. IT WILL TEAR YOUR SOUL FROM YOUR BODY AND TORMENT IT FOREVER. MY POWER DRAWS THE EYE OF THIS RIVAL, AND IT HAS DECLARED THE DOOM OF YOUR PEOPLE. IT FEARS WHAT WILL COME TO PASS IF YOU MAKE THIS PACT WITH ME.
The serpentine appendage of smoke evaporated, leaving Athol gasping on the ground. His fingers still held tight to the haft of his spear, reminding him of Humekhta and the Aridians. His people, his great-grandfather, had made cause with them to find peace. They had survived but they had not prospered. Peace had run its course and now war was coming, unlooked-for but inevitable.
He stood and advanced to the centre of the skull rune, planting the haft of the spear in the centre of the depression. He drew a knife and cut himself across the palm, as though making a pact with a mortal foe, fist held up so that rivulets of his blood ran down his arm.
‘I pledge myself to you. With my blood I seal this pact. My life is yours. My body is yours. My soul is yours.’ A phrase came to him, unknown until now like the name of the power to which he swore. ‘Blood for the Blood God!’
THE PACT IS SEALED. KNOW YOUR TRUE NAME AND CONQUER ALL FOR KHORNE.
An ear-splitting roar consumed Athol as he saw what he thought was an impossibly large blade cut the sky. An arc of red lightning spat down and struck him, setting his body afire with black flames. Another hit him but did not dissipate, lifting him bodily above the shrine, where more forks of power seared from the tips of the standing stones, bathing him with ruddy light. From here he saw that the shrine looked like a maw, lined with black fangs, and the fire chasm was in fact a pair of glaring eyes with furrowed brow.
In a heartbeat the storm disappeared.
Shrouded in silence that was more haunting than the booming voice of the Blood God, trailing wisps of smoke from charred flesh, Athol fell. He hit the ground at speed, driving all sense and thought from him.
Sunlight on his eyelids woke him. Every piece of him felt charged with energy. He could feel each stone beneath him, every piece of grit and pebble that touched his skin, aware to the slightest breeze over his face and even the fluctuations in the light as clouds passed above.
A darker shadow eclipsed the light and his eyes snapped open, revealing a tall, heavily muscled man standing over him. Khul rolled backwards, fingers snatching at the spear that still lay by his side, coming to his feet ready to fight.
‘Good reflexes,’ said the stranger, though his voice was familiar.
‘Lashkar?’
The Bloodspeaker nodded and grinned.
‘For my service to Khorne I have been restored.’
‘Restored? This is how you used to look?’
Lashkar bent his head to examine himself, all taut muscle and rangy limbs.
‘Yes. This was how I was before I led our people through the Black Flames. You did not think a Bloodspeaker would really be an emaciated whelp?’
Recollection flooded back and Athol’s hand moved to his chest, where the last bolt had struck him. His fingers felt a ridge of scar tissue there, mapping the lines until he could make out the shape. It was a version of the same rune that had been carved into the shrine floor.
‘Khorne’s mark,’ said Lashkar. ‘You are his warrior now.’
The tingling sensation was fading, his normal senses returning. Even so, the sky seemed brighter, the sounds sharper than before. Perhaps it was just the deep sleep that had cleared away the fatigue of his long trek.
‘So now we return to the Khul,’ he said.
Lashkar frowned and as his brow wrinkled the creases in the skin formed a skull rune. His own mark, it seemed.
‘To do what? Khorne has blessed you, but you cannot yet stand alone against an army.’
‘Yet?’ Athol could not stop a smile at the thought of such prowess being his for the taking.
‘You need a host to lead if you are going to defeat the Tithemasters.’
‘I think that’s more unlikely than ever,’ said Athol, gesturing towards the mark upon him. ‘The words of Sigmar have chained many on the Flamescar plains.’
‘There are other ways.’ Lashkar stretched, easing the muscles in his shoulders and neck. He was a little taller even than Athol, almost as broad. ‘While I was transformed back to my former stature, Khorne granted me sight beyond mortal means. I can see what he desires me to see, hear what he desires me to hear. I am to be his tongue in these lands, so that the lies of Sigmar are driven out and the true word of Khorne shall be spread in runes of blood.’
‘And what does Khorne wish you to see?’
Lashkar laid a hand upon Athol’s shoulder and led him to the gate-stones, so that the pair of them looked out to the forests and the plains to the south. In the distance rose the iron-flanked peak of Vostargi Mont, fortress of the last duardin. Storm clouds gathered in the skies beyond. The Bloodspeaker lifted a gnarled hand and pointed.
‘Far beyond
what we see, the tribes gather. A Red Feast has been called, a summons to council and trial.’
‘I know of the Red Feast. Two have been called in my lifetime, though before I was of age to compete. People from across the Flamescar will gather at the Clavis Isles to make alliance, to feast and to mend rivalries.’ He had proposed an idea to the elders, and now it seemed opportunity presented itself. ‘The perfect time to forge a new army against the Tithemasters.’
He made to start down the path again but Lashkar’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
‘There is one other thing, one more revelation of Khorne you must hear.’
Athol turned, leaning on his spear.
‘What is it?’
‘To mark your passing from the vale of mortals to the road of immortals you will take a new name.’ Lashkar moved his hand to Athol’s brow, laying fingers upon the skin as though he were physically bestowing the blessing of the Skull Lord. ‘From this moment on Athol Khul is no more. You are bound to the Blood God and in your name shall he be recognised. You are his champion now.’
‘I understand. I shall take the name–’
‘The name has been chosen, it is not for you to take.’ Lashkar stepped back and crossed his arms. ‘For evermore shall your name be cursed by your foes and celebrated by your allies. That name is your title. The ancient name for our leader, abandoned when we stepped through the Black Flames and the Sigmar-tongues made you forget the true ways.’
‘Korghos.’ Athol recalled the word from the oldest tales his grandfather had told him. ‘I shall be the Bloodking. I will be Korghos of the Khul.’
Lashkar bent to one knee, hands clasped to his chest.
‘Praise Khorne. Hail Korghos Khul!’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Slipping his axe free from its loop, Threx strode towards the encampment of the Korchians. Ahead of him Atraxas led three hundred Hall Guards, their mail glinting in the light of the morning sun above Clavis Volk. An entourage headed by Nerxes followed the Ashen King: Foraza with the banner, adorned now with the symbol of the Ashen King; Vourza with her horn in hand; and Kexas leading a party of four bearers carrying a great iron chest on poles, smouldering with coals taken from the Pyre.
The Korchians had raised up a village of timbered huts for their champions and their supporters, creating streets among the towering trees that dominated the side of the island that faced the sunrise. Warriors and their families stared at the Ashen King, some of them hissing insults, others restricting their antipathy to their gazes.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Nerxes. ‘Atraxas could fight one of Yourag’s warriors first.’
‘No, we settle this matter before everything else.’
‘This is about more than your feud with Yourag.’
Threx darted an annoyed glanced at his cousin.
‘I know. But the alliance against us stems from the Korchians. When I remove Yourag, others will think twice before speaking out against the Skullbrands.’
‘And I suppose that if you die, we can spend the rest of the Red Feast gorging ourselves.’ Nerxes’ quick smile took the edge off his words.
‘I cannot lose,’ said Threx. He looked over his shoulder towards the Pyrebearers. It was not the heat from the coals that he felt, but a deeper source of energy. He and the fiery contents were connected, their presence sending a thrill of energy though him. ‘I have brought the power of the Asha Vale with me.’
‘A masterful plan, Ashen King.’
Threx darted a look at his cousin, suspecting sarcasm, but saw nothing in Nerxes’ expression.
‘Yes,’ said the leader of the Skullbrands. ‘It was.’
There was a wider space at the heart of the Korchian camp, of flattened grass and several stumps of felled trees, set before a larger construction than the others. Threx had waited only a handful of days between arriving and setting out his first challenge but the procession of the Skullbrands had been noted.
Yourag was not alone. One of his giants held his banner next to him, Soreas on the other side, decked in gilded armour, the blazon of Sigmar’s hammer moulded upon its breastplate. The Korchians had company. Tribes from across the Flamescar Plateau were still arriving, hundreds of warriors gathering for the honour duels and associated festivities, from places and peoples only dimly remembered.
Threx counted fourteen more banners, each marking another chieftain waiting before the hall, each with a Sigmar-tongue at their shoulder.
Atraxas and the Hall Guards split, forming three lines fifty-strong to either side, their weapons bared, shields lifted. Threx entered the open space with his companions close by, stopping just fifty paces from his rivals.
‘Sound the challenge.’
‘What?’ Vourza looked at Threx and then the other leaders a stone’s throw away. ‘I think they already know we’re here.’
Threx gritted his teeth, determined not to look at her, his gaze fixed on Yourag.
‘Sound the challenge, Vourza.’
A moment later, the horn blast sounded, ringing in his ear for some time after the note had ended. He saw Yourag sneering, looks of annoyance on the faces of others. It was pleasing to see them vexed. Threx had not come here for allies, but to destroy his enemies.
‘Come for a fight, have you?’ called Yourag.
‘I’ve come to finish what I started at Wendhome.’ Threx took another step forward and brandished his axe. ‘My blade’s edge is sharp for your neck, Yourag.’
‘It’s as dull as your brain, Threx the Forsaken.’
‘That’s what she’s calling me, is it?’ Threx pointed his axe at Soreas. ‘It’s funny, but only last three-moonsfall did you say she was a bloated sow, and here you are hanging on her every word.’
‘It is Sigmar that has forsaken you,’ yelled his mother, raising her hand above her head, fingers splayed towards the heavens. ‘Through Yourag’s blade, His wrath will be swift and deadly.’
‘We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?’ Threx lowered his axe, turning the blade back and forth so that it caught the morning light. ‘I see you have a new weapon, Yourag. I hope this one is better forged than the last.’
The Korchian chieftain had a wider sword than the one that had broken beneath Threx’s axe, and in place of his buckler he carried an oval shield decorated with a red drakon’s head. He brandished the tulwar, swiping left and right a few times.
‘Golvarian red iron, you pig-son,’ Yourag called out. ‘Anointed with sacred oil upon the Godanvil at Fireford.’
Threx’s humour dissipated. That was quite a weapon if it was true. He rallied quickly, half turning towards his companions.
‘You know that I had to call a Red Feast just so that it would be a fair fight? All of this trouble because Yourag of the Korchians hides behind his warriors.’
The others laughed and jeered on cue. At a nod from Atraxas, the Hall Guard beat their weapons on their shields and stamped their feet, rousing a great din for several heartbeats.
Yourag smiled and his confidence dented Threx’s mood.
‘I’m not hiding behind anyone today.’ The Korchian indicated the tribal leaders to his left and right. ‘Yet as much as I would love to cut that flapping tongue out of your mouth, it seems that I might have to wait my turn.’
Threx didn’t understand what he meant, until a tall woman standing a few paces to the right of Yourag stepped forward. She was clad in plates of red leather over bronze mail, all but her eyes hidden behind a gilded aventail that hung from her conical helm. In her hands she held a bladed staff, more like a double-headed spear. A banner arched like a crest over her from a pole strapped to her back, and the massive feathers of red, black and grey had to have come from a monstrous gorgogryph.
‘I am Els of the Ruinwander, hammer in the fist of Sigmar. I challenge Threx Skullbrand to a test of arms.’
‘Wait…’
A burly, dark-skinned chieftain took a pace. Threx recognised the chain-and-ball he carried, copied in gold upon his b
anner – the leader of the Sparkash, a tribe from the coast near the Clavis Isles. Yourag’s alliance had spread far during his travels to the Red Feast.
‘I am Dorgan the Proud, head-cleaver of the Sparkash tribes. I challenge Threx Skullbrand to a test of arms.’
One by one the fourteen leaders made their challenges while Yourag sheathed his blade and stood with arms crossed, grinning broadly. Fourteen warriors, each a veteran and champion among their tribes. Some Threx had heard of, a couple he had met before, and all of them stared at him with open hostility. Whatever words had been sown by Soreas, they had fallen on fertile ground and sprouted into bountiful hatred.
Threx was equally aware of the scrutiny of his own people. He could imagine Nerxes’ discomfort, Foraza’s expectation. It was a move intended to intimidate him. Regardless of how deft he was with the axe, the odds of surviving fourteen trials to face Yourag were slim. Impossible, his father might have said. But Threx was not his father. He was Ashen King now, and the power of the Pyre, the spirit of the Asha Vale was with him.
He turned and gestured for the ember-bearers and Kexas to come forward. They brought the burning ashes with them, setting down the large casket in front of Threx. Kexas stood to one side of the smouldering artefact, dressed in his full ceremonial robes, face hidden behind a blank, black mask.
‘You have defiled the spirit of the Asha Vale,’ the Keeper of the Pyre intoned, raising a heavily gloved hand to point at Soreas. ‘In falsehood you kept the Skullbrands in slavery, chained to the weakness of your own soul.’
‘Lies!’ Soreas’ own accusing finger shot back at Kexas. ‘The subterfuge was yours!’
‘It was the whispers of false prayer that robbed your husband of the Pyre’s blessing. Now the spirit of the Asha Vale has returned, incarnate in the true Ashen King, Threx Skullbrand. He will restore the honour of the Pyre and extinguish those that utter false promise.’
‘Profanity!’ A bearded Sigmar-tongue stomped out from behind one of the other chieftains. Rolls of parchment tied to the haft of his ceremonial hammer swayed on their ribbons. A tattoo of a hammer was blazoned on his bare chest, its head encircled by a halo of lightning bolts. ‘Hear the damnation from his own lips. The Skullbrands have turned from the Hammer-God and embraced the darkness of ancient savagery once more.’
