Six Pillars
Josh Reynolds
Apademak the Hungry stood atop the remains of a shattered statue in the Plaza of Six Pillars, his head thrown back, and screamed. It was a sound overflowing with fury and hunger. It filled the expanse of the plaza and beyond, echoing through the rain-swept streets that curled about the Gnawing Gate and the crumbled structures that lined them, where great fires crackled and savage shapes danced. Apademak bent backwards, forcing the sound louder and louder, until his throat burned and his lungs ached.
As he screamed, he could hear the wail of horns, the bellowing of the Gnawing Gate, and the sounds of the dying, spreading out from the city around him. Those captives not meant for Pazak’s purposes, or for other labours, were left to the mercies of the Eight Tribes – those teeming hordes of savage bloodreavers who fought beneath the banners of the Scarlet Lord. Some, like the Skinstealers, devoured the meat of their prisoners after stripping them of flesh. Others hunted their terrified prey through the overgrown ruins for sport, or else sacrificed them to the Blood God on sacred brass anvils.
These were the tribes who would come at his call, and more besides. Though their warriors were scattered after the sack of Uryx, they would not have gone far. There was too much fun to be had in the centre of the city. Hundreds of captives to entertain them, and the palaces of the soft-skinned nobility to be pillaged and burnt. They would come, and he would lead them forth to partake of a dark feast in Khorne’s name.
Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, and a clap of thunder caused the trees to sway. The war-song of the enemy, Apademak thought. They whose blood tasted of lightning, and whose tread was thunder. He had yet to take the skull of one of the warriors Anhur called ‘Stormcasts’, and the thought only added to his anger. He had killed many, hacking them down in their gilded panoply at the Hissing Gates, but something – some force – always snatched them away before he could collect his due.
‘But I will do so today, Khorne – in your name, I shall pluck their skulls smoking from their flesh and cast them into your fires,’ he roared, and the strange sulphur-birds which nested in the yellow roots that ran through the walls of the plaza burst into the air, crowing raucously as if in reply. He watched them circle through the stinging rain, and for a moment he thought he saw another shape amongst them. A lean shape, hideously beautiful, leather wings flapping as she swooped over the faithful. His heart swelled.
‘Valkia,’ he roared. ‘Gorequeen, Jewel of Murder... hear us, oh Lady of Slaughter! Hear your sons and daughters – we will spill seas of blood in the name of he who is our father. We will offer up the lightning itself!’
The phantom faded, even as his words echoed across the street. He had seen Valkia once, at a distance. The Gorequeen had danced through the slaughter so gracefully that in that moment, Apademak had been lost. He could still feel the sweet pain of her voice as it dug its hooks deep into the meat of him, assuring him that he was hers forevermore. Whether she had heard him, whether she had truly graced him with her presence, he could not say, but a man gained nothing if he did not first try.
He heard the crash of stones and the groan of splintered wood. Over the tops of the square, vine-encrusted buildings that surrounded the plaza, he could see the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. The monstrous archway was ever hungry, and its tendrils hunted the streets as eagerly as any Bloodbound.
As he watched, the great tentacle of the gate ripped a distant aqueduct apart, and lightning flashed, again and again. The Gnawing Gate roared, as if in agony.
The enemy were coming. Vasa the Lion, exalted among deathbringers though he had been, had been unable to stop them in the courtyards of the outer city. Apademak tightened his grip on his axe, glad of its weight. It trembled in his hand, eager to sing a hymn of slaughter. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, placating the blade’s spirit with a taste of his blood. ‘Soon,’ he muttered. ‘Soon, we shall drink until our bellies burst, my friend.’
He looked out over the plaza, and across the shimmering yellow surface of the lake, where thick columns of smoke rose over Uryx. The Nine Hundred Pillars, Anhur called it, though Apademak did not know why. Anhur said many things that Apademak did not understand. He used words where an axe was needed.
That was something creatures like Anhur would never understand. They had not grown up as he had, cloaked in Khorne’s glory. Apademak had grown to manhood in the Bitter Mountains. His tribe had offered up wine-soaked gobbets of meat to the shrieking carrion-birds who brought Khorne’s words from the Brass Citadel. And the birds had carried those sweet meats to Khorne’s lips, and the Blood God had cast his blessings down, in return.
Men like Anhur sought power in battle and became lost, until Khorne found them. But Apademak had never faltered, not once. He had set his first skull atop the Blood God’s altar at the age of ten winters, and had done so faithfully for uncounted days since. Anhur knew nothing of Khorne’s truth. The Scarlet Lord was a bloodless thing, who saw no crime in retreat, victory in failure and wove schemes like a spider wove webs.
But, somehow, he had Khorne’s favour. Despite it all, he still stood, blessed and strong. Why had he been sent here? Why had he been called to serve such a creature? Apademak shuddered, suddenly gripped by an all-consuming anger. It tore through him, threatening to break his limbs and rip the muscles from his bones. He threw back his head and howled again, venting his fury at the storm clouds that gathered above.
As he screamed, his mind suddenly roiled with gory visions of the carnage to come. Apademak staggered, clutching at his head. His long fingers dug into the scarred flesh of his brow as scenes of war and death flashed across the surface of his mind. He heard the clamour of daemon-voices, and the rattle of the brass standards of Khorne. He felt the heat of the great forges of the Brass Citadel, and could taste the blood of men on his tongue.
He saw a vast shape unfold across the storm-riddled sky. A shape of brass and blood, a titan of awfulness clad in baroque armour, with a face like that of a snarling hound, only miles wide and grinning down through the rain and lightning. Khorne straddled the Tephra Crater, his feet planted on either rim, his great sword held aloft, its blade pointed down. Soon, soon, he would drive the Ender of Worlds down, and Klaxus would die. Aqshy would die. All things would die, and Apademak screamed and screamed, as vision after vision washed over him, showing him pieces of what had been and what was to come.
The echoes of his cries plunged deeper and deeper into the city, merging into a roar of summons, and those who heeded such calls came. They flowed into the plaza, howling and clashing weapons – Skinstealers, Bonegnawers, Red Blades and more besides, warriors and chieftains from the Eight Tribes. With them came a few lash-wielding bloodstokers, and a trio of his fellow slaughterpriests. They knew what his cry meant, for it was one of the most sacred of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood – it was the call to the Feast of Slaupnir.
Apademak looked down upon the gathering of warriors and growled in satisfaction. With these, he would break the Stormcasts. Even now, the main thrust of the foe drove forward, through the crooked streets and broken avenues of the outer city, towards the Gnawing Gate. Apademak intended to meet them, and fling them back. Khorne was watching him, the eyes of his patron were upon him, and he would not be found wanting.
Apademak met the eyes of the tribesmen gathered below him, and raised his axe in readiness to whip them into a frenzy. But before he could speak, the growing crowd was pierced by an armoured shape. The tribesmen drew back, muttering amongst themselves, and even the slaughterpriests knew better
than to bar a skullgrinder’s path.
Volundr moved slowly, as if he were a thing of iron, rather than flesh and blood. He carried his anvil on his shoulder as he walked, and dragged his chains behind him. Men skipped back rather than be touched by those chains. He came to a halt before Apademak’s perch. The anvil thudded down from Volundr’s broad shoulder, splintering the stones. The chains in his grip clinked softly. Apademak straightened. Of all the Gorechosen, the warrior-smith was the most dangerous, besides himself. And he was stubbornly loyal to Anhur. Perhaps that was why he had come. Apademak had challenged the Scarlet Lord more than once since they had begun their march across the Tephra Crater, as was his right and duty. Was Volundr challenging him in return? The thought of it was thrilling.
‘Hungry One, I would speak with thee,’ Volundr said, his voice issuing hollowly from the fang-like mouthpiece of his crimson helm. ‘I bring you the words of our Lord Anhur.’
Apademak stopped. He looked down at the skullgrinder warily. He was taller than the war-smith, but not by much, and Volundr was twice as broad. ‘Then speak,’ he said. ‘But be quick – our enemies draw close, and my axe is thirsty.’
‘He is displeased with you, Apademak,’ Volundr said.
‘Is he?’ Apademak said. ‘And he sends you to tell me? Why does he not come here himself, and face me as a true warrior?’
‘He has greater wars to wage. Can you feel it, Apademak? Can you feel the weight of Khorne’s gaze? It is drawn to this place, to Anhur. Khorne waits – eager and slavering – on the threshold, and it is our duty – our privilege – to thrust the gate wide,’ Volundr said.
Apademak grunted. ‘Aye, I feel it. It is ever thus. Khorne is in every splintered shield and torn limb, in every dying scream and roar of triumph. He is always with us.’ He spread his long arms and the bloodreavers roared in agreement.
‘But his eye is not on us. It is Anhur who occupies him,’ Volundr said, and the tribesmen fell silent at his words. Apademak made an impatient gesture.
‘And so? Does that mean I should slink quietly? I was already a prodigy of murder before I felt Khorne’s spark, and I have made war my lover, lord and life,’ Apademak said, arms spread. ‘The Blood God speaks through me, hell-smith. Can Anhur say the same? You forge weapons, but I am one. If you wish to challenge me, I will oblige you in your folly.’ Apademak spun his axe with ease, the corded muscles in his forearm bunching. Bloodreavers stepped back, clearing the area around Volundr. The skullgrinder laughed harshly.
‘No challenge, I assure thee, Hungry One. Merely a warning... heed me or not, as you will,’ Volundr said. ‘You are a weapon, as you say, but it is Anhur who wields you. And a weapon which turns too often in its wielder’s hands is bound for the fire and the anvil, to be reshaped into something more useful.’
Apademak threw back his head and laughed. ‘Proof enough that no man may know the will of the gods,’ he said. He tapped the side of his head and leered at Volundr. ‘Khorne’s words thrum in my brain like fresh-driven nails. Loyalty is not among them. Only blood, only skulls, only war... those are the gospels of Khorne.’
‘Indeed,’ Volundr said. ‘But war comes in many forms. It can be a thing of bloody brevity, or an eternity of slaughter. Anhur fights for the latter...’
‘The Scarlet Lord fights for himself, as we all do, skullgrinder. He is as riven with weakness as that fool, Baron Aceteryx or even Hroth Shieldbreaker. It spreads in him like a sickness. I can smell it, and soon, I shall end his suffering.’ Apademak tested the edge of his axe. A sudden urgency gripped him. Change was on the wind, and if Khorne’s gaze had been drawn here, then all the better. ‘Tell him that, if you wish. Tell him that I am ever hungry. That I see him for what he is, and I shall take his skull the moment he gives me reason, even as he has threatened to take mine.’
‘You need a reason?’
Apademak smiled. ‘The formalities must be observed, warrior-smith. I speak for Khorne. I challenge the weak in his name. I cull the unworthy.’
Volundr nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. Then, ‘You cull the weak, slaughterpriest. But never forget that it falls to me to forge the strong.’
‘Then prepare thy tools, war-smith, for the strong stand before thee,’ Apademak snarled. Anhur was afraid. Why else would he have sent Volundr, with such an overt warning? Anhur was afraid! And Apademak would show him that he was right to be so, once the Stormcasts had been driven from Uryx. He glanced up, and saw again the enormous shadow of Khorne, stretching across the curve of the sky through the riotous storm clouds.
He felt his muscles swell with fury and strength, and he lifted his axe over his head. Rain pelted his face as he roared, ‘The enemy has come, my brothers. They ride this gale, and we must meet them. Khorne hungers, my brothers... will you not feed him?’
‘Feed,’ the bloodreavers roared. The lashes of the bloodstokers sang as they whipped the tribesmen into a frenzy, and Apademak’s brethren added their own voices to his exhortations. The bloodreavers grew more frenzied by the moment, chanting Khorne’s name, and gashing their flesh with their weapons. Apademak saw Volundr moving away, across the plaza, and he grinned. Run back to your master, war-smith, he thought.
‘Feed, brothers,’ Apademak said. ‘Eat of their hearts, brothers, so that Khorne might taste the blood. Find them, and feast.’ As he spoke, he could feel the rage that was in him stretching forth to infect those Bloodbound closest to him. The heat of his fury ignited the flames of their hunger, stirring them and burning away doubt, hesitation and fear. Feed, as I will feed upon the Scarlet Lord before this battle is done, he thought.
‘Feast,’ the tribesmen bellowed. The clash of their weapons swelled to fill the air, and Apademak swept his axe out, as if to cut through the noise. Thunder rumbled, shaking the very stones of the plaza. He heard the screech of the Gnawing Gate, and laughed.
‘Sniff them out, my brothers,’ he roared, ‘Hunt them down and fall upon them, ravenous and strong. Crack their bones and flay their hides. Pry loose their hearts, and offer them up smoking and bloody in Khorne’s name! Blood for the Blood God!’ He leapt down from his perch and struck the ground with his axe, sending up sparks.
‘Blood for the Blood God!’ came the thunderous reply. Apademak howled again, and the gathered tribesmen joined their voices to his. The sound rose up and up, drowning out even the noise of the storm for a brief moment. And then, as one, the warriors of the Eight Tribes went to meet the foe.
‘What sort of folk are these, who raise up such monsters?’ Tarkus said, as he stepped over one of the grey tendrils that lay limp and shrunken in the street. Only moments earlier, the advancing Stormcasts had been forced to raise their shields against the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. But with a sudden crack of thunder, the hideous limbs had, all at once, stiffened then fallen away, as if whatever malign life force animated them had been snuffed. ‘Perhaps we should leave the Klaxians to their fate...’
‘If I thought you were serious, Tarkus, you and I would have words,’ Moros said. He and Galerius marched alongside the Knight-Heraldor at the head of the Adamantine. Behind them came the Devastation Brotherhoods – Retributors, Protectors and Decimators, marching in the shadow of those Prosecutor retinues who had not accompanied Orius. Liberators and Judicators, arrayed in Thunderhead Brotherhoods, moved alongside the Paladins with steady determination. More than once since they’d started out from the Mandrake Bastion, one or more of these brotherhoods had peeled off from the main column to confront an approaching enemy.
‘You mistake the people for their leaders,’ Moros continued. ‘The crimes of some are not the crimes of all. The common folk of Klaxus had no more say in the actions of their rulers than the people of Raxul or the citizens of the Striding Cities of the Ghyran Veldt. Our duty remains the same regardless. We will free them from tyranny, familiar or otherwise.’ He used his hammer to thrust a man-sized coil of tendril out of his p
ath. That these tendrils were inert meant only one thing – Orius had succeeded in taking the Gnawing Gate.
And Sigmar willing, he can hold it until we arrive, the Lord-Relictor thought, as he led the warriors of his chamber on through the rubble-strewn streets of Uryx. The column Moros led marched swiftly. It was composed of the bulk of the Stormcast retinues of their chamber. The remainder followed more slowly, under the leadership of Lord-Castellant Gorgus.
It fell to Gorgus to render the plazas and courtyards they travelled through defensible for those chambers who would follow them, and aid the Adamantine in reclaiming Uryx from the Bloodbound. Uryx would become a bastion from whence the Stormcasts might march to free the remaining kingdoms of the Tephra Crater. But first, they had to free the city from the grip of the Scarlet Lord. Beneath his war-helm, Moros frowned.
The Adamantine had pursued Anhur across mountain, salt-plain and trackless waste, harrying him from the realm of the furnace kings to the Hissing Gates. They had clashed with him again and again, and every time the Scarlet Lord had chosen to flee, rather than stand and fight, as if some greater purpose than mindless carnage drove him. Despite their victories, Moros couldn’t help but feel that Anhur had drawn them knowingly to the Tephra Crater. Why else would he seemingly put his hand in such a trap?
Between the fires that raged through the surrounding jungles and the Stormcasts laying siege to the crater-kingdoms, there was no chance of Anhur escaping with anything remotely resembling an intact army. His power would be broken if he remained in Uryx. Unless he thought to defeat the Stormcasts in this maze of tangled streets, where he had failed to do so before under the open skies. Why have you come here, Scarlet Lord? Are you seeking a final confrontation... or is it something else? Moros thought. There was a smell in the air that he didn’t like – not simply the effluvium of war, but a more pervasive stink. The stench of corrupt magics. It might only be the death-rattle of Uryx, as the spells which held it intact faded, but he suspected otherwise. A voice from above drew his gaze skyward. A Prosecutor swooped low. ‘Something approaches, Lord-Relictor,’ the winged Stormcast called out.
The Black Rift of Klaxus - Six Pillars Page 1
