Like much of what he knew of the gods and their realms, it was all stories told at a remove, passed down from one warrior to another. And all of these stories might be true, or none of them at all. The gods, he knew, were vast, and contained multitudes – daemons and lesser spirits – all bound to the will and whim of their patrons.
Perhaps it was one of those multitudes that had sent him the signs and portents which had set him upon this path. He had seen the silhouette of an anvil in the blood smear of a dying orruk, and read strange sigils carved on the splintery insides of an Ashdwell sylvaneth. A flock of carrion birds had followed him for eight days, and croaked the name of Caldus to him at the eighth hour of each day. In red dreams, he had witnessed a titanic shape, wolf-fanged and mighty, striding through the heavens, and heard a voice, tolling like a bell. It had called out to him, commanding him to travel alone across the Furnace Lands, through the Felstone Plains and to the steppes of the Caldera. And he had done so.
Implacable, he had fought his way towards the setting sun, through enemies great and small. All to reach the Road of Blades. But now that he was here, he felt… Not anticipation. Wariness, perhaps. His instincts had been honed on a thousand battlefields. If this was a test, he had not yet passed it.
Ahazian tightened his grip on his weapons and increased his pace. He could feel the broken blades turning beneath him, like serpents stirring in their sleep. As if the road were waking up. The ashes grew thick, filling his mouth and stinging his eyes. They swirled about the road, caught in the eternal heat of their burning.
He stopped. He thought he’d seen something, in the ashes. Like the outline of a shape. Almost human, but not quite. More of them, now. Following behind him, approaching him from ahead. Crowding him. The weapons were clattering again. But the sound had changed. It was almost… eager? ‘Ha,’ he said, softly. ‘So be it.’
The first blade rose up like an adder, and he crushed it with his skullhammer. A second tore itself free of the road and whirled towards him, borne aloft in a cloud of ash. Two more followed its example. An axe wrenched itself upright and spun towards his head. He bulled forward, knowing that to hesitate was to be overwhelmed. To stop and fight was the impulse of all warriors, but it was better to seek out a true challenge than to shed blood for no purpose. There were no enemies here, only the echoes of a defeated people. Khorne might not care from whence the blood flowed, but Ahazian did, especially if it promised to be his own.
He pressed on, smashing weapons aside. Beneath the rattle of metal and the hiss of ash, he thought he heard voices, cursing him, or warning him. The souls of the dead, perhaps, or maybe even those who’d failed to meet the road’s challenge. Arrowheads dug into his flesh like fangs as he swatted the axe from the air. Swords drew sparks from his shoulder-plates and back-plate. A spear blade crashed against his greave, and twisted away. Only once did he stumble, when a length of chain tangled his legs. But a quick strike with his goreaxe freed him, before the rest could take advantage.
Ahazian was bleeding from a score of wounds when he reached what he’d sought. The gateway rose up out of nothing, a coruscating vortex composed of swirling ash, splinters of molten metal and a harsh, eye-searing light. It was not a physical thing, so much as the memory of one. Not a true gate, but a wound cut into the flesh of Aqshy, bleeding heat and light. Sweat beaded on his flesh as he approached the light, goreaxe raised to shield his eyes. Behind him, the road undulated. Weapon points gleamed in the raw glare of the gateway as they surged towards him. He did not slow, or hesitate. He hurled himself through the gate.
He slammed down onto a hard, metal surface. He clambered to his feet and took in his surroundings at a glance. Fumes of sulphurous gas hung thick upon the dense air, partially obscuring the heights above, and the depths below. The gantry he stood on was a narrow strip of heat-scarred iron, extending over an indistinct molten expanse, far beneath him. The path ahead led to a massive portcullis, wrought from brass and stone in the shape of raging flames. The portcullis itself was set into some vast, central edifice, the shape of which he found himself unable to comprehend. From everywhere echoed the din of industry and the grinding of stone. The noise was a force unto itself, battering at his senses.
The gantry vibrated from the quaquaversal reverberation, creaking in its vague moorings. Ahazian caught sight of movement some distance above him. Another gantry, gleaming like silver, stretched towards the central edifice from out of the choking haze. A lean figure strode across it, carrying a broad-bladed impaling spear over its shoulder. The figure stopped, as if it had caught sight of Ahazian. It shouted something, but the words were lost in the clamour. A greeting, or maybe a challenge.
‘It seems that I am not alone on this path, then. No matter.’ Ahazian raised his goreaxe in salute. A roar from below dragged his eyes downward, towards a third gantry, composed of what appeared to be fire-blackened bones. A heavy figure, clad in heavy armour the colour of clotting blood, glared up at him. It clutched an axe in one hand and had a heavy shield strapped to its other arm. ‘A path of silver, a path of bones and a path of fire,’ Ahazian muttered. Perhaps the Road of Blades was not so unique as the stories had made out.
The bulky warrior below began to lumber towards what Ahazian suspected was his own portcullis. Annoyance flared in him. He had come too far to be beaten to his goal by some plodding oaf. He broke into a run. But as he did so, he felt the gantry begin to shudder and buck. He staggered, and nearly fell, as the portcullis ground open with a clatter of chains. Something massive stepped out onto the juddering gantry.
It was not alive, at least not in any way he recognised. It was shaped like a man, though it was the size of one of the gargants said to dwell in the Firepeaks. Its hide was brass and blackened iron, and it was draped with smoking chains. Vents spewed smoke whenever it moved. Its head was a mockery of his own helmet, and it clutched an enormous axe in its talons. With a grinding roar, it lurched towards him, axe raised. With every step, it caused the gantry to shudder and groan.
‘Another test? Another stone on which to hone my edge – come then. I fear nothing that walks.’ Ahazian’s weapons hummed in his grip as he lunged to meet the automaton. They were eager for battle, even against something that could not bleed. The great axe hissed down, and he twisted aside, nearly losing his footing. He struck out at the automaton’s joints, trying to slow it down. But it ignored his attacks the way he’d ignored the arrows of the Caldera earlier.
It was a weapon, and felt no pain from his blows, which only added to his frustration. ‘Scream, damn you – howl, shriek, something,’ he growled. Screams were his music, and never before had he been denied them. Even the bark-skinned sylvaneth screamed. But this thing refused to give him his due. Then, conceivably, that was the point. Like the living weapons of the road, this thing was not to be fought – but avoided.
Filled with new certainty, Ahazian hunched forward, avoiding a sweeping blow that would have removed his head, and threw himself between its legs. He rolled to his feet as it turned towards him, gears whining. Then, with a shout, he brought his skullhammer down on the trembling surface of the gantry. The iron had been weakened by the automaton’s weight, and it burst at the point of impact. The automaton staggered towards him, axe raised for a killing blow. Chunks of hot metal spattered across his helmet as he struck the gantry again and again. Then, with a final, echoing screech, the iron gave way and the gantry collapsed, carrying the automaton with it. The thing plunged down into the molten depths below.
Ahazian heard a creaking behind him and turned, expecting to see a second automaton. Instead, he saw the bars of the portcullis descending. They meant to trap him out here, whoever they were. He snarled in anger and sprang to stop it. But even as he moved, he knew he wouldn’t reach it in time. With a roar, he sent his goreaxe spinning towards the portcullis. The weapon wedged itself between the bars and the stone frame of the gateway, slowing the mechanism’s descent. Sparks fl
ashed as the metal of the blade bit at the stonework.
The Deathbringer dived through the gateway even as his goreaxe snapped in two, and the portcullis slammed down. He glanced at the remains of the weapon. Another test. One of sacrifice. Ahazian found himself in an immense, circular antechamber, hewn from volcanic rock. The walls were bare, save for thick pillars of feldspar and eight portals, including the one he’d entered through. ‘Smaller than I thought it’d be,’ he said. On the floor was a mosaic of images – daemons, warriors, gods, all locked in battle – curling around colossal grates. Above him, the chamber stretched up into a smoky darkness.
The skin between his shoulder blades itched and he peered upwards. Between the pillars, he glimpsed what might have been individual tiers or levels, lit by firelight. This was only the bottom level, then. He heard the ringing of hammers on anvils, and the hiss of hot metal being cooled. Distant voices spoke, but he could not make out their words. The air stank of smoke and blood.
‘Are we expected to fight our way to the top, then?’ someone rumbled. Ahazian turned to see the brutish warrior he’d noticed before stump through an archway marked with symbols of death. The warrior’s armour was gashed and dented in places, and he’d lost his shield, but he still had his axe. Strange charms and tokens hung from his neck, and his breastplate was etched with scenes of battle. His helmet was crafted in the shape of a skull, and the haft of his axe was a human femur. He waved the weapon at Ahazian. ‘Answer me, fool, or I shall gut you and read the answer in your entrails.’
Ahazian stepped back towards the centre of the chamber. Perhaps this was the last test. A trial by combat, to see who was worthy of the Soulmaw’s gifts. ‘Do not make threats you cannot keep, brute.’ He spread his arms. ‘Come to me, if you wish to die.’
‘Does that go for all of us, or just him?’
Ahazian risked a glance to his left. The spear-wielder he’d seen before stepped through an archway of gold. The warrior wore an open-faced helmet and a polished cuirass of brass, marked with the rune of Khorne. His scarred, tattooed limbs were bare of armour, but his movements were so quick, Ahazian doubted he required the extra protection. Even so, blood dripped freely down his limbs from numerous wounds. ‘Feel free to join in, if you like,’ Ahazian said. ‘I’ve never had a problem killing strangers.’
‘Too much talking, not enough dying,’ the brute rumbled. He charged towards Ahazian, axe raised. Ahazian braced himself to meet the warrior’s rush, glad at last to face a living opponent. Even if he did smell like an open grave. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of more warriors entering the chamber through the other archways. He had little time to spare for them, however, as his adversary hacked at him. He caught the blade of the axe on the head of his skullhammer. His muscles bulged as he fought to force his larger opponent back. ‘Strong,’ the brute grunted.
‘Only the strong survive,’ Ahazian said.
‘And only the clever prosper,’ the spear-wielder interjected. The wide blade of his impaling spear skidded off the armour under Ahazian’s arm. He caught the weapon just behind the blade and yanked it forward, so that it slammed into the chest of the brute. The hulking warrior staggered back with a curse. Ahazian spun and smashed his skullhammer into the chest of the spear-wielder, knocking him flat.
‘A clever warrior wouldn’t have got so close,’ Ahazian growled, as he raised his weapon. He would crack this fool’s skull and then finish off the other one. However, as he moved to do so, smoke began to rise from the grates in the floor. It flowed upwards so swiftly and thickly that soon Ahazian could see nothing around him. The sounds of battle grew dim, and faded away entirely. Even the floor beneath his feet felt different. He could no longer feel the presence of his opponents. It was as if they had been stolen away by unseen hands. For a moment, curiosity warred with anger.
Then, in the smoke, came a light. A dull, orange glow. Acting on instinct, he moved towards it. The floor trembled beneath him as he moved, and he heard the thunderous creaking of unseen gears. From somewhere, a voice began to speak.
In the beginning, before the Age of Blood, before the realms cracked and the four brothers made war upon one another, there was fire. From fire, came heat. From heat, shape. And shape split into eight. And the eight became as death. Eight Lamentations.
Ahazian stopped. ‘The Eight…’ he whispered. Every warrior marked by Khorne knew the legend of the Eight Lamentations. Eight weapons, given by Khorne as gifts to his brother gods, but then lost. A single Lamentation could shatter armies. All eight together would rend the walls of reality, and cast down all that opposed them. Were these the weapons that had drawn him here? Was this why he had been summoned, to wield one of the Eight? The thought excited him. It was only fitting, was it not?
The smoke swelled, and Ahazian wondered if the chamber were changing shape, somehow. Everything seemed to be moving, drawing him closer to the orange glow. He pressed on, moving as quickly as he dared, without being able to see his surroundings. And through it all, the voice continued its tale.
The Eight were the raw stuff of Chaos, hammered and shaped to a killing edge by the chosen weapon-smiths of Khorne. To each of his Forgemasters was given a task – to craft a weapon unlike any other: a weapon fit for a god. Or one as unto a god.
‘I am not a god, but I would gladly slaughter a pantheon for such a weapon,’ Ahazian said. His words were swallowed up by the smoke, without even an echo to mark their passing. With such a weapon in his hand, he would be as war itself.
Then came the Age of Blood and the Eight were lost. But it is said by the Brass Oracles that there will come eight warriors – Godchosen – who will reclaim the Eight for Khorne, and march with them at the head of his armies, at the end of all things…
Abruptly, the smoke billowed and began to disperse, as he was enveloped in a great heat. His boots scraped on rough stone, and he waved a hand to clear his vision. He was in a forge. Larger than any he’d ever seen, but crude. Primitive. It was a cavern, chopped and hewn so as to make room for firepits and cooling basins. Racks of weapons decorated the curved walls – hackblades, wrath-hammers, weapons of all shapes and sizes.
And at the heart of the forge, a huge anvil, and the smith himself, standing over it. One big hand clutched a hammer, while the other held something flat on the anvil. The hammer came down once, twice, three times, filling the forge with the sound of metal ringing on metal. The sound sliced at his senses, setting his teeth on edge.
Ahazian recognised the heavily muscled being before him. He’d seen skullgrinders before, though the war-smiths of Khorne were not a common sight. The creature’s armour was blackened and warped, as if he had been at the centre of a lightning strike. When the skull-faced helm turned, Ahazian saw that it was scored and marked in similar fashion.
‘You are of the Ekran.’
The skullgrinder’s voice was like an avalanche. Ahazian hesitated. Then, he said, ‘I am Ahazian Kel.’
‘The last kel.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill the others?’
Ahazian took a tighter grip on his skullhammer. ‘Some. Who are you to ask such questions?’
‘I am he who called you here, Ahazian Kel. I am Volundr of Hesphut. The Skull-Cracker. The Sword-Binder. Do you know my name?’
Ahazian did. ‘It is said, in certain circles, that it was by your hand that the sword Marrowcutter was forged. That you broke a hundred daemons on your anvil, and used their blood to cool the blade of the greatest of the Eight Lamentations.’
A low, guttural laugh slipped from the skullgrinder. ‘Even so, even so. You know who I am, then. But do you know what I am?’
‘The Forgemaster of Aqshy.’
‘Yes. One of eight sworn war-smiths, bound in service to Khorne. Though we are but seven, now. The forges of Azyr are cold, and my brother is gone. Even Khorne cannot find him.’ Volundr lifted what he’d been worki
ng on from the anvil. It was an axe – a black goreaxe, chased in gold. ‘This axe once belonged to another, who failed to live up to its promise and my expectations. Thus, I have reforged it, and made it stronger.’
The skullgrinder turned, the axe licking out. Ahazian jerked back, bringing his skullhammer up to block the blow. His hammer burst as the axe bit into it, and he was knocked backwards. Volundr gave him no time to recover, or even mourn the loss of a faithful weapon. The skullgrinder spun the axe as if it weighed no more than a feather, and chopped at Ahazian’s head. Ahazian ducked aside. He didn’t waste time wondering why the skullgrinder had called him here only to kill him. Such was the skullgrinder’s strength, he had no doubt that a single blow would mean his end. He had to stay out of reach.
‘Why did you come, kel?’ Volundr rumbled. ‘Answer me quickly.’
‘I came seeking weapons,’ Ahazian said, avoiding another blow. He cast around, seeking a way out. His spirit rebelled at the thought of retreat, but he had not come all this way merely to die. There were weapons here – one of them might give him an edge.
‘Which weapons? This one, perhaps?’ The axe slashed down, nearly taking Ahazian’s leg off. He threw himself backwards, towards a rack of blades. ‘Or perhaps you came seeking one of the Eight Lamentations, eh? Did you come seeking Marrowcutter, or perhaps the spear called Gung?’
‘And if I did?’
‘Is that the only reason you dared walk the Road of Blades?’
‘What other reason is there?’ Ahazian snarled. He snatched up a hackblade and turned. The axe sheared through it, even as he brought it up. He cast the jagged stump into Volundr’s face.
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