by Warhammer
One of the many screaming voices resolved into that of his mother, who stood a couple of paces away brandishing her Sigmarite talisman like a weapon. The silver hammer gleamed blue, bathing her face in its azure light, reflecting from eyes glazed with madness. Spittle flew as she continued her tirade.
‘Forsake the Hammer-God and be damned, creature of the unholy flames. Cursed are they that slay during the quiet-arms of the Red Feast. Your soul shall wander the Grey Realm in torment, given not to lust or passion, love or hope, but only fear and despair. Not into Sigmar’s golden embrace shall you rise, but into the coldness of the Great Abyss.’
‘Shut up,’ snarled Threx. He glanced past her to see Korghos pulling his spear from the body of the Direbrands’ Sigmar-tongue. A shout behind him caused him to turn sharply, axe raised. It was Nerxes, blade and shield at the ready.
‘What has possessed you, cousin?’ he cried, staring in disbelief at Yourag’s corpse. His attention moved to the other champions, who were drawing weapons and shouting at each other as well as the Skullbrands.
‘The spirit of the Pyre, cousin,’ Threx replied with a grin. It was true. He felt the flames burning in his chest in place of his heart. Yourag’s blood ran trickles through the ash upon his flesh, carving runnels of heat over his skin. ‘This is as it was meant to be.’
Threx eyed the others, trying to work out which ones might side with him, and which would not. Korghos’ companion, Lashkar, wasted no time on such introspection. The warrior, every bit as tall as one of the Korchian giants, crashed into Halgaron Witherfolk, his bronze short sword slashing across her face. Her slender blade cut a mark across his naked chest, but the blood that spilled forth was thick and black, giving off wisps of vapour that reminded Threx of the haze the surrounded the Pyre coals.
A fist crashed against his back, sending a spasm of pain down his spine that sent him to one knee. Looking back, he saw his mother drawing her hand back for another blow, her fingers bathed in the shimmer of her holy amulet. She continued to spit a stream of curses as she levelled another punch, connecting with the side of his head.
As he fell to one knee, Threx saw Nerxes out of the corner of his eye. His cousin stood just a few paces away as though speared to the spot, head turning one way and then the other as he took in everything that was happening. For a heartbeat their gazes met.
Threx felt the power of the Pyre burning in his eyes and saw Nerxes recoil from his glare. He saw nothing else of his cousin’s reaction as Soreas drove her heel into his jaw.
The blow brought back a flash of memory, of when she had struck him before the Pyre for defending her honour. Fuelled by a formless rage, fiery tears welled up in his eyes, as she brought her hammer back once more. When Soreas’ hand next descended, Threx reacted without thought. His axe flashed in the Pyre-light. Her hand, still clutching the sigmarite hammer, spun through the air.
Beyond her he saw Korghos racing back up the path, spear in hand, its head trailing bright flame. In his other fist he held the heads of Skolor Helfir and his priest.
Shrieking, Soreas collapsed to one knee, staring in horror at the stump of her wrist. Nerxes yelled something and grabbed Threx’s arm. He was about to hurl his cousin free, snarling at his interference, when Nerxes’ words seeped through the heartbeat that thundered in his head.
‘The Pyre, cousin!’ Nerxes pointed to the firepit, where the flames reached as high as a tree, flickering between bright yellow and deep red. ‘Honour the flames!’
Soreas understood his meaning before Threx and fell to her back, legs kicking at the earth as she tried to scrabble away. Threx reached down and snatched her ankle to haul her over the sharp rocks, Nerxes at his side.
The Pyre called to him, a crackling siren song that demanded fuel for the flames. For generations it had been stifled, drowned by the worthless blood of the faithless dead. It craved something more vital, a sacrifice worthy of its power.
Threx changed his grip, snatching up the front of Soreas’ robe. He lifted her onto his shoulder, just as he had done with his father. The memory brought a grin to his face.
‘Join your coward of a husband,’ he told her, heaving the Sigmar-tongue into the flames.
The air seethed with the power of Khorne. Quelled for so long, the energies of the Skullbrands’ Pyre spewed forth like an invisible smoke, a bloody mist descending upon those present that only Lashkar could sense. Korghos strode into the fire clearing, hefting the heads of his foes high, voice breaking through the growing din of fighting.
‘Fight for me, or give your skull to my master!’ His arm swung and the severed heads arced across the open space, hair catching alight, skin bursting into flames as they hit the Pyre. In moments they had been reduced to fleshless skulls. ‘Purge the Sigmarites!’
Fed these new sacrifices, the Pyre flame towered to even greater height, coiling and leaping to the heavens where the Blood Moon stared down on the growing violence. It seemed as though a skull-visaged being looked down upon them, Khorne himself gifting his followers with his immortal gaze.
Some answered the call of Korghos, blades and hammers cutting down their Sigmar-tongue companions. Others looked on in horror, aghast at what unfolded around them. As priests of a warrior god, the Sigmarites did not fall easily, and their allies turned their weapons on those that acted in the cause of the Blood God. Lashkar drove his sword into the back of a chieftain who tried to shield his priestess from the advance of Threx and Nerxes. The man fell, spine severed, mouth agape as he slumped backwards. Lashkar gave a bestial howl as he drove the point of his blade into the open mouth, pinning his victim to the ground. The priestess snatched the blade from her chieftain’s dead hand, backing away.
Threx rushed her, a flurry of savage blows like an unstoppable storm, every slashing attack carving and dismembering. As the ragged remains of the Sigmar-tongue flopped over the rocks, his final blow took off her head.
Half a dozen leaders had joined Korghos. Lashkar could see the blood mist from the Pyre seeping into them, entering bodies and souls with more strength for every blow they bent towards their enemies. War shouts became hoarse shrieks of incoherent rage, the bloodlust spilling from one to the next like a rising tide. Korghos joined them, his spear an arc of fire that never stopped, slashing and stabbing, bearing down on his enemies with relentless fury.
‘Praise the Lord of Skulls!’ bellowed Lashkar, lifting his sword towards the Blood Moon. A trickle of life fluid fell from the blade onto his face, lighting the rune-like marking upon his brow with a golden flame.
One by one the enemies of Khorne fell. The last few tried to run but their cowardice was no salvation under the stare of the Blood God. They died as easily to blows upon their backs as to the fore, their panicked screams and dying yells cut short.
In the silence that followed, the Pyre’s crackle filled the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Exultation buzzed through Korghos as he stood among the dead. No trial had ever been so satisfying as the slaughter that had just taken place. He looked at the bloodied corpses scattered about the gathering space and knew that any triumph that had come before this one had been a pale imitation. His coldness had been a cage, he realised, as he looked upon the carnage that had been wrought by the beast he had kept hidden within.
The others whooped and howled their celebration, dipping fingers into the blood of their fallen enemies to smear the sign of their triumph upon their skin. Threx was laughing, hauling up the remains of Yourag. He remonstrated with the corpse as though it were still alive, gloating over the dead man.
Nerxes walked among the ruin, stabbing his sword into every body that lay there, one clean blow through each chest. Others had returned to their drinks and were lifting wineskins and tankards to lips, looking at each other with amazement and joy.
Korghos found Lashkar gazing at him, a half-smile on his lips.
‘You feel it now, don’t you,’ said the Bloodspeaker. ‘The joy of rage that is Khorne’s gift to us.
’
‘I feel it,’ replied Korghos. His heart slowed as he laid a hand upon the shoulder of the man who had guided him to this destiny. ‘I have you to thank for this.’
‘Not at all, I was – am – only the vessel. Save your praises for Khorne.’
‘It is not praise that the Blood God demands,’ Korghos said, casting his gaze at the dismembered bodies.
He strode to the centre of the clearing, spear raised, Lashkar at his shoulder.
‘Heed me!’ he bellowed, his words cutting through the fugue of bloodlust that had beset the champions.
They gathered closer, ten in all, six champions and four followers. A few bore wounds from the fighting but none seemed too injured to fight. They looked at each other like excited children, teeth showing in broad grins on their blood-soaked faces.
‘It has begun,’ said Korghos, regarding each of them slowly. ‘You have all taken the first step on the path to glory, as I have done. You have freed yourselves from the shackles of the Sigmar-tongues whose lies denied us our true nature.’
He waved a hand to encompass the bloodied surroundings.
‘We have found a better, purer way to live. But this freedom does not come without price. That strength you feel, it comes from another. The great Khorne, Lord of Skulls, Blood God of the Heavens.’
‘Look upon him and know that you are his wrath,’ said Lashkar, pointing up at the sky.
All eyes followed his gesture, directing them to the Blood Moon as it hung low over the summit of Clavis Volk. Against its ruddy gleam stood a bold silhouette of the great table that adorned the peak.
‘Seal the pact with Khorne here and now and we shall know triumph after triumph,’ said Korghos. He pointed at Threx, who was watching the Khul with wide-eyed awe. ‘Already your rival has been slain. His people will bow before us and take the path of Khorne, or they shall fall to our blades.’
‘Death to the Korchian scum!’ laughed Threx.
‘And we will fight the Tithemasters with you,’ added another of the chieftains, a brute by the name of Pano who hailed from one of the Vanxian tribes. ‘The lies of Soreas brought me here, but I see the truth now.’
‘Your bond with Khorne is absolute,’ said Lashkar. ‘You fight for Khorne and no other. Give to Khorne what he desires and he will reward you with conquest like nothing before it.’
Korghos looked at Lashkar, wondering what this meant, but said nothing.
‘Greater glory awaits, but first you must pay the skull debt or face Khorne’s displeasure,’ said the Bloodspeaker.
‘Skulls,’ said Nerxes grimly. ‘The Pyre will feed on the skulls of our foes again.’
‘And there will be many more,’ declared Korghos. The gaze of Khorne was upon him but he was filled with strength, not fear. The world was changing fast now, a new age was breaking upon the Great Parch, but as he looked at his first followers he knew that the transformation would herald a time of greatness for the Khul. All that was required was for the blood to keep flowing. ‘Before the Blood Moon sets, only the followers of Khorne will walk this island!’
They busied themselves among the dead, cutting off the heads to offer to the Blood God. Korghos severed those of the foes he had slain, another two Sigmar-tongues and three others, and set them before the Pyre while he waited for the rest of his band to complete their task. When all were ready, they tossed the skulls into the fire, the flames burning them to the bone in an instant so that a cairn of ivory orbs seemed to grow in its centre.
Watching the skulls gleam amid the flames, Korghos saw again the mountain of skulls that had been Khorne’s first message to him in his dreams. He felt the Blood God’s power flowing from the Pyre, lapping at his flesh like a heat that did not burn.
‘Mighty Khorne, Blade of Ruin, we give of our dead foes so that You can glory in their destruction.’ Lashkar lifted his hands high, a blade in each, his arms reddened to the elbow by his bloody work. ‘Without Khorne there is no war. Without war there can be no victory.’
‘Praise Khorne!’ bellowed Threx, a call echoed by several of the others.
‘Blood for the–’ Lashkar’s dedication was cut short as a gout of flame lurched from the Pyre, setting him ablaze in an instant. Arms still lifted, his eyes turned to gleaming cinders and the flames took on a blood-red hue. His mouth distended and black smoke issued forth, bringing with it thunderous words. Ember glows flickered in the voice-smog.
YOUR OFFERINGS PLEASE ME. YOU ARE THE BEGINNING AND THE END. YOU ARE THE DOOM OF YOUR FOES, MY ANOINTED CONQUERORS. SHOW NO MERCY. GIVE NO RESPITE. SPREAD MY GIFT OF SLAUGHTER AND YOU WILL SEE MY RAGE INCARNATE UNLEASHED ON YOUR FOES.
The distorted frame of Lashkar thrust out a hand. The Pyre flames exploded, sending a blade of hardened flame into the chest of each champion but Korghos. Those that were struck reeled backwards and fell with blood spraying from their grievous wounds.
As they lay on the ground, twitched by spasms, the flames engulfing Lashkar guttered to a fine smoke that drifted away on the growing wind. The Bloodspeaker’s eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed backwards, toppling to the floor like a felled tree.
Threx woke to the thudding of a drum, which resolved into his heartbeat hard in his chest. He opened his eyes and saw the Blood Moon above, bringing with it recollection of recent events. His hand moved to his chest where the shard had struck him but his questing fingers found nothing but thick scar tissue. Sitting up he saw that the others had likewise been marked, and he recognised it as the skull rune he had seen dancing in the flames of the Pyre.
A shadow fell over him and he turned his head to see Korghos standing there. He extended a hand and helped Threx to his feet, a smile on his lips.
‘I came with only my faith and my weapons,’ the Khul announced, ‘but you each have warriors on the island. Bring them here so that we might find who shall be anointed and who cannot accept the truth of Khorne’s rule. Remember the words of our master. Show no mercy, even for those you once called friend or kin.’
Threx found Nerxes gazing into the flames, his narrow face spattered with gore.
‘What do you think of that?’ Threx said. ‘Who’ll join us and who will fight?’
‘I think all will join,’ said Nerxes. ‘Any that would have turned will not have remained with you when Soreas left. They are true to the Pyre and the real power behind the Pyre’s strength has been revealed to us. Let me go to the camp and bring them here to you.’
‘Very well. Send Atraxas, Foraza and Vourza first. Then the others, ten at a time.’
‘I will,’ said Nerxes. He gave Korghos a lingering gaze and then left.
The Khul champion approached and in the light of the Pyre, Threx was certain of what he had seen before.
‘I knew this time would come,’ he told Korghos. ‘I saw myself in the flames at the head of an army. The Flamescar will tremble at our approach. Cities will burn.’
‘My army.’
Two words, simply spoken, but they hit Threx like a thunderbolt. He took a step back, staring at Korghos Khul. There was no belligerence or insult in the man’s expression, his words had been a simple statement of fact.
In his heart, Threx knew it to be true. He had seen the blessing of Khorne laid upon Korghos and realised that his own greatness was to be at the side of the Khul. Threx glanced at Lashkar, who was collecting the weapons of the fallen and piling them close at hand. A thought came to him as he looked at the ruin of bodies that lay about them.
‘You need a banner,’ Threx said. ‘A warning to your enemies. A symbol to your followers. I will make one fitting for a lord of Khorne. Let me stand at your side. Khorne has guided me to this moment, from when I threw my father into the flames to when I dragged you from the raging seas. I thought I was destined to rule, but I see now that we all live only to enact the will of the Blood God.’
‘You fought well and without you this would not have been possible. With you and Lashkar by my side I will forge an army that will crush the Tith
emasters and set the tribes free from the lies of Sigmar.’
Given this endorsement, Threx set to work among the bodies, finding a Sigmar-tongue’s staff to act as the rod for the standard. He had no plan but followed each passing whim, cutting off limbs and hands, taking pieces of armour and other trophies from every cadaver. Though the skulls were for Khorne there was ample material left to fashion a suitable icon for his new champion.
Before Threx had finished, Atraxas and the others arrived. They gazed around the blood-matted area with incredulous expressions.
‘Nerxes said that there was a battle,’ said Vourza, stepping over the remains of Soreas. She looked down and grinned at the corpse. ‘You’ve been settling scores, Ashen King.’
‘I’m not the Ashen King any more,’ Threx told them. He saw that Foraza had brought his standard and gestured for the banner. ‘I have a higher calling – we have a higher calling now. The spirit of the Pyre has been made manifest. Korghos Khul has shown us the way to victory over the cursed Sigmarites.’
‘We’re fighting the Sigmarites?’ said Foraza, his expression confused as he passed over the standard.
‘They would deny Khorne, the Blood God that created the Pyre for us. If we are to praise Khorne, all worshippers of weaker Gods must die.’
Foraza nodded, though Threx wondered if his friend really understood what was happening. He watched Atraxas, who had said nothing since arriving, but his eye had been in constant motion, taking in everything about the scene. Threx adjusted his grip on his axe, wondering at his uncle’s silence.
‘You are loyal to the Pyre, aren’t you, uncle?’
‘Where are the heads?’ said the leader of the Hall Guard. Threx flicked his gaze towards the Pyre in answer. ‘Ah.’
‘Did you brand them?’ asked Foraza.
‘Not yet,’ growled Threx, annoyed that it had not occurred to him to do so. ‘In the future we will. The old ways are coming back, my friends.’ He directed an inquiring stare at Atraxas. ‘Better to speak any argument now.’
