The Curse of Khaine

by Gav Thorpe

  At the heart of the druchii camp, glowering down upon all around it, rose Malekith’s pavilion, a conglomeration of steel-ringed hide and linen, black-lacquered wood and bare iron that approximated the Black Tower of his capital. It rose far higher than any other, six corners held by ramparted towers that were broken down, transported and assembled with each march, manned by Black Guard under the supervision of Kouran.

  A killing ground two hundred paces across separated the rest of the army’s lodgings from their ruler, covered by repeater bolt throwers mounted in pits dug into the frozen earth by slaves.

  As if these were not barrier enough to any wishing to assail Malekith there was, aside from the malice of the Witch King himself, one final obstacle. Beside the black-walled tent slumbered a beast of such proportion that at first it might be mistaken for a blackened hillock until one noticed the pattern of plate-sized scales and claws as long as bastard swords.

  She slumbered, Seraphon the Supreme, but alert to the smallest hint of danger to her master. Progeny of Sulekh, greatest of the black dragons, first honoured mount of the Witch King, Seraphon would allow none to approach that did not brandish Malekith’s seal like a shield before them. Her breath spread a bank of mist around the pavilion, tinged with a poisonous gas. A yellow eye opened a slit as shouts broke the stillness.

  Beyond this enclave of stillness and dormant power the camp was engulfed by tumult. Riders returned with news of an approaching army, coming south at some speed and seemingly impervious to the blizzard that had trapped the elves upon the ridge for the last five days. The scouts could not state for sure the nature of the foe, for those of their number that approached too close did not return. Of their fate, nothing could be said, but there was rumour of powerful magic and malign influence.

  War drums called the companies to muster. Bleakswords, dreadspears and darkshards armed with repeating crossbows fell into rank at the shouted commands of petty nobles and professional captains. Knights and lordlings called for retainers to bring their cold ones while chariots rumbled from the stables to await their masters. The beastmasters whooped and hollered their strange cries, whips cracked and goads struck scaled and furred flesh.

  The witch elves and sisters of slaughter roused from their sleep and drank deep of the libations drawn from the cauldrons of the hags that led them. Soon their dismal drug-aches were forgotten as fresh stimulants raced through their bodies and lit their senses. Their battle-screeches and praises to Khaine split the air at the soon-to-commence bloodshed.

  About the flag poles and spire-like masts of the Witch King’s pavilion dark, winged shapes unfurled themselves like banners. Chittering to one another, a cloud of harpies hundreds-strong launched into the air, startled by the sudden noise.

  ‘The enemy host approaches, my king,’ said Kouran, presenting his halberd in salute as he bowed. There was no carpet underfoot, just weathered hide scorched in many places by the hot tread of his master. ‘Do you wish to lead the army into battle?’

  Malekith barely heard his lieutenant, just as he was almost unaware of the braying horns and crashing drums. Kouran had proven himself not only a skilled warrior but an adept general. His defence of Naggarond during Malekith’s absence demonstrated beyond doubt that he was more than just a blade-wielder.

  The Witch King’s concern was not set upon the thousands of unwashed, hairy barbarians that were advancing upon his army, but much further afield, beyond this battle, beyond the next battles, to a far grander war. The reclamation of Naggaroth was a necessary distraction, but he would not let such matters intrude upon his longer strategy.

  He waved a dismissive hand, indicating that he was content for Kouran and the lower commanders to direct the battle in his stead. Malekith wondered, briefly, if he should have wiped out the humans when he had been granted the chance millennia before they had become civilised. Though they had become a tiresome thorn in his side, they had provided something of a bulwark also, fighting each other as much as they raided the lands of the druchii.

  In the end it mattered nothing to him. They were, for the most part, such short-lived, savage creatures it was impossible to know how their fates might have changed. Like the orcs and the half-beasts and the tunnelling ratmen, the humans had bred and spread across Elthin Arvan in the wake of the great war between the elves and the dwarfs, and but for the tribes of the north had played little part in the affairs of elves until the last few centuries.

  Malekith revised his earlier contempt. There were some from the race of humanity that had placed their mark upon history far more deeply than one might have expected, and another had added his name to that roll: Archaon. The so-called Everchosen – the title had spilled from the lips of prisoners easily enough, rendered in the dozens of dialects of the northern tribes – had roused the northlanders in such strength that not elf or man or dwarf had ever seen the like before.

  This time was different. Malekith felt it again, the subtle shift of fates uncoiling, history parting from the normal cycle of victory and defeat. The gods were stirring. Old gods, dead gods, coming back to life to meddle in the affairs of mortals once again. His charred skin prickled at the thought.

  ‘Wait.’

  The single word froze Kouran at the opening to the Witch King’s main pavilion.

  ‘My king?’ he asked, turning around, pleased at Malekith’s sudden interest. ‘You will lead us?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the Witch King replied, standing up. ‘If required. I shall watch the battle. You may proceed with whatever preparations you deem fitting.’

  ‘As you command, my king.’ Kouran bowed again and left, with considerably more enthusiasm than when he had entered.

  ‘So loyal,’ Malekith said to himself. ‘So easily pleased.’

  His infamous sword, Urithain the Destroyer, was already at his hip but his shield hung on a stand behind the throne. He took it up, almost as high as he was tall, emblazoned with runes that seemed like empty gouges in the plate rather than anything forged by mortal hand.

  Malekith left his pavilion and called for Seraphon. The black dragon responded swiftly, flying over the outer tents to land a few paces from her lord. She did not share the gift of speech that many of her kin from Caledor possessed, but there was a gleam in her eye that betrayed her desire for battle.

  Like a supplicant debasing herself before making petition, Seraphon lowered to the ground and bent down her neck so that Malekith could mount the throne-saddle on her back. At a command from the Witch King she rose up, her wings outstretched, dwarfing all but Malekith’s pavilion.

  ‘Up,’ the Witch King told her and she bound into the air, carrying Malekith away from the tent city with half a dozen mighty beats of her wings, the downdraught of her strokes kicking up a snowstorm through the tents below.

  From on high Malekith could see only a little more clearly. The blizzard was abating and in that he felt magic stirring, the end of the snows not a coincidence. The storm had concealed the Naggarothi for a while, but also it had held them some ten days march from Ghrond, and he suspected his mother of orchestrating the terrible weather. Now its purpose had been fulfilled, delivering the army into the path of the northlander host no doubt.

  There was more than just wind-sorcery in the air. Malekith ordered Seraphon to circle while he allowed the circlet upon his helm to reveal the turbulent winds of magic.

  Sure enough there was something powerful approaching, but it was not magical, but rather a bottomless pit of anti-magic, a great presence that swallowed the mystical power like a lodestone bending iron towards itself.

  The army marched forth, ordering itself to Kouran’s scheme, the infantry holding the right and centre with melee units interspersed with the darkshards, while the beasts, chariots and cavalry massed on the left. Dark riders and small pockets of scouts – wicked outcasts from the Blackspine Mountains known as shades – drifted ahead of the army, seeking the foe and testing the treacherous ground for the regiments to follow.

  Soon Male
kith was not alone in the air. Two manticores swept up from the beastmaster’s pens followed by the dark pegasi of a trio of sorceresses. The harpies were drawn to the Witch King’s presence, descending in a noisy cloud that was soon driven off by roars and clouds of noxious breath from Seraphon, always ready to jealously guard her master. Disappointed, the harpies drifted down towards the army, alighting between the advancing companies and then lifting off again to slowly circle overhead, waiting for easy targets to present themselves.

  Some distance away it appeared as though the land was bleeding. A great column of crimson moved down the pass towards the elven line, which appeared pitifully thin compared to the mass of destruction bearing down upon it.

  No mortal host this, Malekith knew.

  The smell of blood filled the air, making Seraphon snort heavy draughts while the manticores roared in anticipation of the slaughter. The harpies rose in a flock once more, lashing out at each other with clawed fingers, snarling and biting. A grumble of unease and disconcerted whispers rippled through the army of Malekith.

  At the forefront of the daemon army came the flesh hounds – immense beasts with ruddy-scaled hides and scorpion tails, snarling and howling as they led the hunt. Not far behind rumbled chariots of gold and brass pulled by the same, while others, even larger, were drawn into battle by immense juggernauts of daemonic flesh and bronze armour, snorting and bellowing. Horned bloodletters rode on the backs of these chariots, their axes and swords glinting with a light that came not from the storm-swathed sun.

  The ground itself trembled at the approach of the infernal host, thousands of clawed and hoofed feet marching in unison to the crash of hellish drums, beating out the doom of their foes. Standards of bone, dripping with gore, rose from carmine ranks alongside tattered banners and skull-adorned icons of the Blood God. Brass trumpets sounded the glorious advance, their sound cutting the air like a whetstone shrieking along a blade.

  Rank after rank of armoured minions marched shoulder to shoulder, glaring with dead, white eyes, curling horns splayed from their heads, fangs bared in permanent snarls. The air around them seethed with magic pouring forth from the Realm of Chaos. Their presence melted the snow and caused the ground to crack and blister as they passed, corrupting the soil they trod upon. Their leaders, the heralds, howled challenges on the wind and swore oaths to the Master of War to slay all they encountered in His name.

  Daemon princes moved amongst the masses, thrice the height of any elf, some mounted on juggernauts with reins of iron, others borne aloft with wings like bats or pinions covered in raven-black feathers. Porcine, hound-like, human, all manner of faces stared down at the defiant followers of Malekith, seeing nothing but corpses yet to be made.

  At the centre of the oncoming host strode a bestial figure greater still than the daemon princes. Its face was a mask of feral rage, tusked and fanged, surrounded by flowing dark hair that spilled between ridged horns that protected its head like a helm, the immense mane spreading down a back humped large with crimson-skinned muscle. From its back sprouted the ragged remnants of two wings, broken and burned.

  Its body was clad in brass and bronze, plates and scales marked by savage runes of Chaos that made the eyes ache to look upon. Skulls were woven into bloodied mail, still possessed of their souls, wailing and gnashing their teeth in eternal torment, repeating the words of their killer as it snapped commands. In response the daemons broke away from each other into blood-hungry companies, baying and growling, spreading out to engage the whole of the elven line.

  Malekith knew the nature of this beast, one of Khorne’s High-handed Slayers, Destroyers of Worlds, Killers of Hope and Lords of Battle.

  Bloodthirster.

  FOUR

  Visions in Blood

  The bloodthirster’s rage came before it like an aura, sweeping down onto the druchii like a hot wind. Infernal anger seeped into their thoughts. Immortal hatred stirred the blood. Against this daemonic influence the elves had no defence. Mutterings became battle-cries and agitation broke into violence as Malekith’s underlings suddenly sought vent for their unnatural fury.

  Kouran reacted quickly, leading the host into the enemy from the front of the Black Guard, giving the elves a clear foe upon which to sate their bloodlust. There was no finesse, no manoeuvring for superior position – such niceties were boiled away in their frenzy to spill blood. The druchii line charged down the ridge, meeting the chariots and cavalry surging up towards them. Even the darkshards and shades abandoned their crossbows and set into the enemy with drawn knives and short swords.

  The clash was horrendous, bodies churned beneath scythed wheels, warriors decapitated by strokes of bronze swords and axes. Undeterred the elves weathered the impact of their foes, fuelled by the daemon-rage. They quickly surrounded their enemies, tearing into them with sword and spear.

  Heedless of the danger, the elves pressed on, swarming past the scant remains of their first victims. Into the teeth of the foe they charged, metaphorically and literally, drawn towards the bloodthirster as moths are drawn to flame and with similarly deadly result.

  Both sides hacked at one another without thought, driven mad by the blood-rage of Khorne. Those elves that could not lay weapon or hand upon an enemy fell upon each other, slashing and tearing without relent. Even Kouran and his Black Guard, cold-blooded killers to the last elf, were swept away by the orgy of violent release, cleaving like a dark spear into the heart of the daemonic army. The Khainites were driven beyond even their zealous battle-hunger, and cut themselves to let even more blood flow, glorifying in their own wounds as much as the injuries inflicted on their enemies. Their piercing wails lifted higher than the screeching of the harpies as they fell upon the incapacitated of both sides, sating flesh-famine and bloodlust in equal measure.

  The manticores descended like comets of rage, slamming into the daemon regiments with claws and fangs slashing like dozens of swords. Hydras and war dogs matched the baying and screeching of the flesh hounds as they ripped bloody chunks of unnatural flesh from bone and in turn were eviscerated and beheaded.

  The bloodthirster smashed through friend and foe alike, a massive rune-axe in each hand that lofted limbs and severed heads high into the air with every swing. Like a mariner wading to shore, the greater daemon stood thigh-deep in the bodies of its victims, pushing on without mercy or pause, a bloody explosion of pure rage.

  Malekith watched it all in a detached manner. Seraphon was touched by the blood-thirst too but a growl from the Witch King silenced her protest. He felt the anger pulsing around him, bringing visions of slaughter and victory.

  He laughed.

  The bloodthirst of Khorne was nothing compared to the hatred and anger that had burned in his heart for six thousand years. The Blood God’s promises of conquest and glory were faded temptations, long since outgrown by Malekith’s own ambition and towering desire for vengeance. Every day the Witch King fought the need to vent frustration and exact bloody retribution and today was no different.

  With a derisive snort, he ordered Seraphon to descend. The battle was going poorly for his warriors, all advantage of superior strategy and skill washed away by the demands of unquestioning bloodlust. There was only one way to even the odds and avoid certain defeat.

  The bloodthirster noticed Malekith’s descent and, tossing aside the broken body of a manticore, lifted both axes in challenge to the Witch King. Malekith replied with a bolt of pure dark magic that earthed along the unholy blades, sending the greater daemon reeling. Black sparks flew from its iron collar as the power of Khorne dissipated the remaining magical energy.

  ‘It seems your master’s protection against sorcery is not all it once was,’ Malekith laughed as Seraphon circled the brute, one wingtip almost brushing the ground. The Witch King threw another crackling bolt, but this time the collar earthed its power before any harm was done, spraying the magic away from the bloodthirster in a shower of sable lightning.

  ‘Know that I am thy doom, weak mortal,�
�� the beast roared back, clashing its axes together. ‘I am Skarbrand, the Deathbringer, the Corpsemaker, Son of Slaughter.’

  ‘I know of you, Exiled One,’ Malekith sneered. ‘Shamed, humbled, by the simplest of tricks, abandoned by the Lord of Skulls. And shame again you will know for daring to attack the army of the Witch King, Malekith the Great.’

  ‘Ignoble Malekith, the kinslayer,’ laughed Skarbrand. ‘Much is the blood that has flowed through my master’s domain at your behest. Your skull shall make a fine adornment for Khorne’s throne. Fight me, coward, as a true warrior would fight.’

  Skarbrand leapt, one of its axes leaving a ruddy trail through the air as it swung towards Seraphon’s wing. The old dragon was too wily to be caught by surprise and flicked her wing out of the way, soaring above the bloodthirster’s head. Letting forth an enraged bellow, Skarbrand turned in mid-air, the other axe extended for another swing.

  Seraphon caught the creature’s wrist in two claws, warding away the deadly blow. Striving with fierce growls, she bore the bloodthirster aloft. Before the daemon’s other blade could be brought back into play, Malekith struck, driving Urithain to the hilt into its eye. The tip of the blade erupted from the back of Skarbrand’s skull. Seraphon released her grip as Malekith ripped his sword free and the body tumbled groundwards, crushing dozens of the greater daemon’s minions with the impact.

  Like a wind suddenly changing and freshening, the aura of death and violence that had emanated from the bloodthirster was swept away by the cold winds of the north. The bloodletters and flesh hounds were thrown into disarray by the death of their general, while the elves recovered a measure of their senses, both sides recoiling from each other in the moments that followed.