Hammer and Bolter: Issue 20

by Christian Dunn

  ‘As fear began to spread like a plague, Grundval sent forth three of his own boats. None returned. So again he dispatched his ships – a half-dozen this time, with his own son Kjarval in command of the greatest of the fleet. But they too vanished, sending back no word even after weeks at sea.’

  ‘What took them?’ Ruaddon demanded, keen to know the point of the story.

  ‘It was only as the first blizzards swept over the coast that any sign appeared,’ she replied. ‘A single Graeling sea-wolf warrior washed ashore in the storm, clinging to a raft of shattered hull-timbers.

  ‘Shivering and half-drained from a dozen wounds, he clung to life only long enough to recall the fate of his brothers. They had been ravaged by a beast from the depths, he claimed, or maybe ten beasts, for the tentacles and the claws and the thunderous roars were such that the men of the sea had never seen so fierce a monster. It was said that his eyes widened in a blank, haunted stare as he wheezed his last few breaths, tortured in his final moments by some nightmare memory.

  ‘Now the Graelings knew why their coffers were empty, why their men had not returned: a leviathan menaced the tempest-addled waters of the bay, devouring anything that dared venture across the green waves.’

  ‘A curse from the gods?’ Vhorgath said. Ruaddon was perturbed by the concern in his voice.

  ‘They thought so,’ Freya said. ‘Such a horror was worse than any pox the Plague-Lord might send, and no pleas to any of the dark gods could dispel it. The people begged them to withdraw their curse, to send an invading army in its place, so that even the women of Three-Spear Fjord might meet the anger of the shadows in open battle.

  ‘But it was not to be. With all his warriors gone, and the gods refusing to hear his calls, Grundval begged the shaman Ulfthras to employ any rite, even the vilest and most corrupt of the old invocations. Thus did the shaman venture out into the tundra, his white beard soaked in the blood of the thirteen finest Graeling maidens and his lungs swollen with the smoke of ogre bones and ghost-root. There, in the daemon-haunted mist, the shaman communed with the will of Khorne himself, and he returned with the black words of the Blood God. And, indeed, with something more.

  ‘Khorne demanded a champion, a mortal capable of the raw strength and savage heart to slay so fell a beast. And to that dark end, the daemon slaves of the wolf-headed god offered a token – an obsidian tusk on a barbed silver chain. Forged in the fires of Khorne’s own fury and cooled in the bloody sea beneath the Throne of Skulls itself, it would be bestowed upon any man who could slay the leviathan, who would then know the favour of the dark god forevermore.’

  Ruaddon groaned just then, grumbling under his breath, loud enough to interrupt Freya’s mellifluous verses once more. For a moment all eyes settled instead upon him where he sat behind her. He placed no credence in the girl’s words, and he cared not who knew it.

  ‘All of their men were gone, and their lands were cut off from the sea,’ he growled. ‘How then did anyone beyond their villages learn of this challenge?’

  Vhorgath turned a curious eye to Freya. Her delicate features remained as serene under inquiry as they had in the face of his threats of brutality – Ruaddon’s annoyed query seemed not to trouble her in the least.

  ‘It was exactly because the Graeling settlements were so far removed from other tribes that they were able to do so,’ Freya answered. ‘Grundval’s folk had long cultivated a host of crows, trained from hatchlings to carry messages to the furthest lands of Norsca. These black-winged fliers were dispatched in every direction, spreading word of Khorne’s decree.’

  Laughter came from further back in the group at the clever explanation. Ruaddon only grunted. Freya clearly took it as permission to continue.

  ‘Even then, many months passed and the flame of hope continued to fade,’ she said. ‘Riders soon appeared from all over the north realms, and even some from beyond the Norscan barrens answered the call. But all who sailed out to face the beast suffered the same fate. Like every other man who had gone before, none of them were ever seen again.

  ‘Then came Scyla Anfingrimm, son of Thurrik, warlord of the Ironpelt tribe. Though he had not yet seen twenty-five winters, his name and his sword were already known across the Sea of Claws. Indeed, word came late to his ears of the Blood God’s offering, for that was the summer his dragon-ship raided the undead lands of Khemri. It was said that his attacks were so swift and fierce that the mere sight of his sails struck fear even into the undead hearts of that ghostly kingdom.

  ‘Though Grundval warned him of the dangers, Scyla is said to have laughed at the starving Graeling chieftain. Having made even the men without souls shiver in terror, Scyla boasted that no power short of the gods could strike fear into his heart. He took the only ship left in Grundval’s harbour, a rickety old sloop, and set off alone to face the horror of the seas.’

  ‘He sailed into the bay alone,’ Vhorgath said, his voice raised for all to hear. ‘Either quite brave or exceptionally foolish. Much like you, little one.’

  Ruaddon laughed then and tugged on Freya’s hair as if to punctuate his master’s words, drawing a gasp from her lips.

  ‘It has long been the highest of praise among the Norscans to say that a raider was so fierce, he would be unafraid to lead his men into the depths of the underworld,’ she said, ignoring his touch.

  ‘I have heard that,’ Vhorgath replied.

  ‘But they say Scyla was unafraid to sail into the underworld by himself.’

  The warriors fell silent once more. Vhorgath waved at her to go on.

  ‘For several days he sailed straight into the fog, and found only empty waves beyond it,’ Freya continued. ‘When the winds died, he rowed on, but still there was nothing but glaciers and brine. Ever fearless, even of the powers behind the shadows, he finally stood in the rickety boat and mocked the gods of Chaos and laughed at their challenge. Silence was his answer, but only for a moment… and then the waters began to churn.’

  Abruptly, Freya stopped.

  The trail they followed came to an end only a short way ahead, and beyond that there rose a steep climb, a serpentine path leading up into the mist-bathed mountains.

  ‘What is the delay?’ Ruaddon asked, his anger piqued once more. ‘Have you forgotten the rest of the tale or do you require a few moments to invent yet more wild details?’

  She pointed at the precipitous slopes ahead. ‘The remainder of the journey to Scyla’s haven is a perilous climb,’ she said, directing her words to Vhorgath. ‘The horses will be of no use to us. We must continue on foot. Perhaps it is better if I speak no more for now – I do not wish to distract your men while they struggle with the ascent.’

  Vhorgath shook his head.

  ‘Little one, my warriors have trampled fields lost beneath the permanent shadow of Chaos, lands so dangerous that every step would kill a feeble child like you. There is nothing you can show or tell me that would bring them to such caution.’

  The armoured giants dismounted, Ruaddon pulling Freya roughly from the saddle and bidding her to move ahead of him. They tethered the horses among the dead trees, and she led them onwards, resuming her tale.

  ‘So it was, that at first a scaly tentacle reached up from the murk, wrapping itself around mighty Scyla’s leg. He slashed it to pieces with his greatsword, spilling black blood into the sea. For a moment, he was alone upon the waves once more, standing in victory.

  ‘But only for a moment. From behind him, a second tentacle appeared, and then a third and then more than he could count. His boat creaked and strained under the strangling hold, as he himself fought to remain free of their terrible, deadly grip.

  ‘In the battle he stole a glimpse of the beast, and what he faced was a fearsome monster indeed: a kraken, as in the legends of old, thrashing across the waves with countless thick tentacles tipped with razor-edged claws.

  ‘Though Scyla ripped into it, tearing pieces from its scaly hide with every swing of his blade, the kraken did not slow. In a few mom
ents of blood and howls, the fell beast crushed the boat, dumping Scyla into the cold waves in a wash of splinters and broken timber.’

  Vhorgath’s warriors muttered and grunted their amusement as they struggled up the incline, but Ruaddon only frowned. Surely they had not been taken in by this girl’s idiotic fiction? She looked back to them, pausing only briefly in the telling.

  ‘But still Scyla battled. He fought the monster from every piece of flotsam and jetsam upon which he could gain a foothold, swinging his sword left and right… but to no avail.

  ‘Exhausted, his muscles screaming for rest as the waves threatened to drown him before the tentacles could strangle him, Scyla grabbed hold of a rusted hook from his broken vessel. Tied to a frayed length of rope, he slung it across the water and by the favour of the gods he managed to lodge it between the beast’s chitin-armour plates.

  ‘Then he dived beneath the waves. For a long while he held his breath, struggling to stay hidden under the cold sea. Soon, as he had hoped, the mindless creature gave up searching for him, and it began to glide back through the depths. Quiet, steady and still, Scyla let the creature drag him through the frosty brine all night.

  ‘And in time, the beast rewarded his iron stamina. As dawn broke over the Norscan barrens, it hauled itself into a rocky, sheltered cove and clambered up from the depths, and Scyla saw the kraken in all its foul glory. When he–’

  Ruaddon yanked her tattered cloak from behind, tightening it around her throat and cutting off her words with a choking gasp. The hulking warrior made as if to strike her, but instead let her fall to the icy ground in a breathless tumble.

  He sneered and spat at her, and turned away only to find himself face to face with his master, Vhorgath’s eyes burning a sickly violet as he glared at Ruaddon.

  Freya lay sprawled in the dirt, stifling sobs and still rubbing her reddened, bare throat. She did not appear inclined to continue her saga any time soon.

  ‘What is the problem, lieutenant?’ Vhorgath asked, with a particularly threatening emphasis on his final word.

  Ruaddon held his head high. His battle-scarred face was warped with anger.

  ‘I refuse to listen to this drivel any longer,’ he said. ‘No man, no matter how favoured by the gods of Chaos, could do the things she speaks of. Every word of this tale is a lie.’

  ‘It’s not a lie, this is the greatest tale of–’ Freya protested, before Ruaddon yanked on her cloak again. This time he held even tighter, cutting off her breath entirely. He did not let go.

  ‘I will keep my own counsel, on what is truth and what is a lie,’ Vhorgath hissed. ‘Release the girl. She dies only when I order it, and not a moment before.’

  Ruaddon growled in frustration. He did not comply. Freya’s cheeks began to turn purple as she flailed her arms behind her, desperate to break Ruaddon’s iron grip.

  Vhorgath raised his voice. ‘You defy me.’

  Still, Ruaddon did not obey.

  Freya struggled to turn her head. A blood vessel burst in the white of her left eye, and she held out her hands in a silent, choked plea.

  Vhorgath’s hand closed around the dragon-head pommel of his scimitar. Ruaddon clenched his fists in expectation of combat, but he listened to his master’s words.

  ‘We have been through the wastes of perdition together, old friend. But if I have to raise my blade to you, I will take your head from your neck and make a trophy of your skull,’ he seethed.

  Still Ruaddon did not relent.

  ‘She’s leading us on a fool’s errand,’ he replied, ‘of that I am certain. The only thing I do not yet know is why.’

  ‘That is my concern,’ Vhorgath said. The Chaos lord began to draw his blade, with a slow, inexorable motion.

  At the sound of the steel breaking free from the top of the scabbard, Ruaddon finally let Freya loose. She collapsed to the frozen ground, wheezing and quivering as she took laboured lungfuls of the cold mountain air.

  ‘She leads us astray in this barren wilderness!’ he said. ‘Do you not care?’

  Vhorgath let his sword slip back into the sheath. Though the pitiful girl looked up to him for aid, he did not offer a hand.

  ‘There is nothing in these hills that can do us harm, nothing in all of Norsca that can threaten us, least of all a girl telling tales,’ he said. ‘As I promised, if Scyla is not where she says, you will have your way with her. After I’ve had mine, of course.’

  Vhorgath then turned his attentions back to Freya, still on her knees.

  ‘How much further?’ he asked. ‘Do not test me.’

  ‘Just… ahead… trail leads into a pass… between two peaks,’ she said, her voice reduced to a hoarse rasp. ‘The pass is… narrow. There is room for no more than… two men to walk abreast, perhaps less.’

  Vhorgath pointed ahead. Freya evidently understood his meaning, coming to her feet unsteadily and lurching forwards with halting steps.

  Taking the lead from his lieutenant, Vhorgath walked beside Freya until they reached the peak of a rocky outcropping. The mountains spread out before them – beyond lay exactly the formation Freya had described.

  ‘This mountain pass is the final gateway,’ she said. ‘Through here you will find Scyla’s hidden refuge.’

  ‘Very well,’ Vhorgath said. ‘Then finish your tale. If the man we seek is not beyond these cliffs, then it will be your last.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, still trying to catch her breath. ‘I don’t remember…’

  Vhorgath just stared back at her. Ruaddon unexpectedly offered a reply.

  ‘Scyla looked at the monster by daylight. Let’s have an end to this.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Of course. Well, as he let go of his lifeline and huddled in the surf,’ she said, ‘indeed, what he saw astonished him. There was something familiar about the kraken, a glimmer in the eyes of the thing that was not purely wild. It was not entirely a beast. There was something conscious about it, maybe no more than a remnant of its former life.’

  ‘The beast had once been a man?’ Vhorgath muttered, as they stepped into the shadows of the pass.

  ‘So it is said,’ Freya answered. ‘The humanity of even the greatest men can break under the weight of Chaos, and they fall into ruin. As you are no doubt aware.’

  The hulking warrior narrowed his eyes, but said nothing more.

  ‘Soon the monster vanished, hauling itself into the caverns at the edge of the sea, but now Scyla had a trail to follow,’ Freya continued. ‘He tracked the wake of bones, skulls and blood that it left behind like a daemon-slug, deep into the winding caves. Hiding in the cold shadows, Scyla followed the spawn, stalking it, watching as it settled back into its foul nest at the heart of a black hollow.

  ‘Then, once the beast had rested, it moved out to hunt yet again.’

  ‘And then Scyla brought his blade to bear?’ Ruaddon asked, impatiently.

  ‘No, Scyla did not attack,’ Freya replied. ‘Instead he let the monster pass, and while it was gone he secreted himself within its foetid nest, hidden beneath the slimy mass of bones and human detritus. Again he waited.

  ‘This time, when the spawn returned, he let it come to rest. Then he struck. He impaled the monster from below, piercing its foul heart and letting the cold, black blood wash over him.’

  ‘As clever as he was deadly,’ Vhorgath said, grinning and flashing his sharpened teeth. ‘I must meet this man.’

  ‘Soon enough,’ Freya replied. ‘Scyla thus returned in triumph to the Graeling mead hall, carrying the creature’s largest eye on a bone-spear pike. Grateful to him for breaking the foul beast’s grip upon their lands, the Graeling shaman draped the black tusk pendant over his mighty shoulders. From that day forward, he walked the path of a favoured warrior of Khorne.’

  Freya’s saga came to a close just as they passed under a natural arch of basalt, striding out into the mountain sun. Beyond, the pass opened into a wide clearing. Ruaddon stepped up, as his men began to file out from the narrow bottlenec
k.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded, turning to the girl.

  There was no keep, no stronghold, no place fit for any man. Though the clearing was broad, nothing lay beyond it. On every side the ground dropped off at the edge of a steep precipice, overlooking a chasm. Scattered across the dirt in every direction was a grisly collection of human debris: the broken blades of swords, axes and spears lay jumbled about beside pieces of armour, smashed and rusting, half-buried in the dust. Fragments of bones, some nothing more than splintered shards, lay scattered in haphazard piles, the meat picked clean as though by vultures.

  Freya edged back under the stone arch as Vhorgath and his warriors inspected the desolate scene, growing more impatient with every passing moment. Ruaddon drew his sword and called out to her, alerting the rest of the men with his shout.

  ‘I knew you were lying! There is no champion here!’ He turned to his master, pointing with his notched blade. ‘My lord, let me take her. This has gone on long enough.’

  Vhorgath did not answer. Something else stole his attention.

  A growl like the deep rumble of a cave bear thundered in the clearing, followed by the dull scrape of claws across dry rock. The Chaos warriors looked all around them, on every side of the chasm walls, but saw nothing. It was Freya who pointed them in the right direction.

  Upwards.

  Climbing down from the craggy heights above the pass was a stinking, yammering creature. It crept along on reptilian haunches, but the foul beast was no lizard. It was an abomination, a jumble of flayed muscle and scorpion pincers, with a tail ending in a hissing, fang-mouthed asp. The beast’s body was covered in thorny chitin, and around its neck a spiked brass collar glimmered in the weak sunlight. Predatory, feline eyes pulsed with a blood-red fury, glowering from a ruined face.

  ‘What manner of creature is this?’ Vhorgath demanded, drawing his scimitar.

  It was Ruaddon’s keen eye that spied the answer. Dangling from the monster’s throbbing neck, nearly lost in the forest of wet, bristle-like fur upon its chest, was a barbed silver chain. At the end there hung a long black tusk.