The Black Rift of Klaxus - Six Pillars

by Josh Reynolds

  The armoured shapes of Anhur’s Scarlet Axes were visible amongst the throngs of slaves and bloodreaver taskmasters. The blood warriors had fought for Anhur since well before Hroth had joined the warhorde. They were loyal unto death, and rarely mingled with others. As he watched, one cut down a cowering prisoner with a casual sweep of his axe. The blood warrior tore the dying man’s head free of his neck and began to scrape the flesh from the skull.

  Grass crunched beneath his feet and he glanced down. Even here, at the heart of the sulphurous lake, life persisted. The yellow, brittle grass thrust persistently upwards through the flat stones, obscuring ancient mosaics. The thick, sickly-hued roots of a few monstrous trees pushed more of those stones up or else cracked them clean through, casting blighted shadows across the plaza. As the magics that had kept Uryx safe faded, so too did its great works crumble. Soon, even the Sulphur Citadel would be no more than a root-encrusted ruin, its terraces and ramparts hidden beneath a shroud of jungle trees and grasses. Strange birds, scaly and lumpen, perched in the crooked branches, screeching a song that sounded almost like the screams of children.

  Hroth liked the birds. They reminded him of home. He glanced back, past the ancient stone archway that marked the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge stretched away, over the boiling surface of the sulphur lake. The bridge had come by its name honestly. It had been carved not from stone, but from sulphur fumes, trapped and frozen like amber by sorcerous tools. The bridge swayed and undulated slowly, like a strand of smoke caught in the breeze.

  He remembered leading his warriors across its ever-shifting expanse. It shrank and grew without warning, enveloping bloodreavers and drawing them screaming down into itself. Others fell into the lake below, as the bridge shrank beneath their feet. It had thrashed like a thing alive as the Bloodbound fought the Klaxian sulphur-knights across its span. He remembered Vasa the Lion’s roar of triumph as he brained the grandmaster of the knights.

  He smiled at the memory. The knights had been brave, for mortals. But they had died like all the rest, and the bridge had swallowed their remains as greedily as it did those of the Bloodbound. Now the great expanse waited, content for the moment. He did not trust it, for it was a thing of sorcery, but he could not deny that it made for a potent barrier. Then, the city was full of such horrors – the Mandrake Bastion, the Gnawing Gate, the Street of Vines...

  It is no wonder that Khorne was pleased when we brought this place to ruin, Hroth thought, with satisfaction. The priest-kings of Klaxus had been sorcerers and that was reason enough to mark them for death. He turned away, and continued on, his warriors moving around him in loose formation.

  ‘A wonder, is it not?’

  Hroth turned, as the bulky shape of Volundr fell into step beside him. He had his anvil balanced on one shoulder, and its chain wrapped about him. Hroth grunted in annoyance as he noted the way his blood warriors made way for the skullgrinder. Such a show of respect annoyed him – only two beings were worth that, and Volundr was neither.

  ‘What is?’ Hroth said.

  ‘This bridge. The city. All of it. The priest-kings crafted it from the raw stuff of the jungle, and now, with their fall, the jungle reclaims it. Roots and branches once kept in check by the magics of the Klaxian nobility now spread and engulf the city built atop them. Feral warriors run wild in darkened streets, and predators prowl the temple squares. Civilization crumbling unto savagery, as it must,’ Volundr said. ‘A wonder, as I said.’

  Hroth peered at him. ‘And so?’

  ‘I forget that you are not a craftsman, deathbringer. You cannot see the beauty in such things,’ Volundr said.

  ‘The only beauty I care for comes from split skulls,’ Hroth said. ‘You are in my way, smith. Stand aside and live for another day yet.’ He started forward, wondering if the skullgrinder would try and stop him. Some part of him longed to test his might against Volundr. The war-smith was reputed to be one of the eight forgemasters of the infamous Soulmaw warriors, who had supposedly won Khorne’s favour by wrestling with the very elements themselves in order to craft weapons of great and terrible power. Win or lose, Hroth thought it would be a glorious fight, one to be remembered in tale and song.

  ‘I will not stand aside. Nor will I hinder you,’ Volundr said. ‘I come to fight beside you, and the others.’ The skullgrinder stepped back and swung his hand out. ‘They await us, at the heart of the Plaza of Yellow Smoke.’

  ‘Us... you have not deigned to take the field since we fought our way through the scalding geysers of the Hissing Gates, Volundr,’ Hroth said, as they strode through the vast plaza. A hundred campfires burned in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. The Plaza of Yellow Smoke had once felt the tread of a hundred thousand supplicants, seeking aid, mercy or salvation from the priest-kings of Klaxus. Now it was a mustering ground for the warhorde in all its demented glory. Amidst the newly-erected monuments and tottering banner poles, cackling beastmen strung up skin sacks, newly flayed from screaming captives and sewn tight, so that they caught the sulphurous breeze. Warriors matched blades across circles of crushed bone, and slaves were auctioned for sale between tribes.

  Such was the fate of any place where the shadow of Khorne fell. The conquered had no right to life, to salvation or mercy. The weak were food for the strong, and such was the true way of it. Hroth had learned those lessons on the seas of Gjoll as a boy, and he kept them close to his heart.

  The sounds of battle echoed up from the city. Apademak had demanded the honour of the vanguard, and Hroth had seen no reason to deny the berserker his desire. With Vasa the Lion likely dead, Apademak was the next most senior, behind Hroth and Volundr. The rest of the Scarlet Lord’s Gorechosen were crouched over a crude map Warpfang had scratched out in the dirt. It depicted the northern edge of the city, so that the skaven chieftain could indicate the movements of the enemy for the others.

  ‘Lightning-things are here, here and here,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered, as he stabbed the dirt with the tip of his halberd. ‘They have advanced past the screaming-tree-things and the gate-that-gnaws. My clawbands hold them here,’ he continued, tapping another spot.

  Hroth stroked his beard. ‘They move fast.’

  ‘Like lightning, one might say,’ Baron Aceteryx murmured. Hroth looked at him. The deathbringer shrugged. ‘I did say “might”.’

  Hroth shook his head. The Shieldbreaker had fought in campaigns undreamt of, against enemies both monstrous and mortal. But he could not recall ever coming across a creature so worthy of an axe between the eyes as Baron Aceteryx. The Baron fought with words as well as blades, waging his wars in the mind and heart as well as on the field. In that way, he was much like Anhur.

  ‘Fast or not, we can match them,’ Phastet said. She crouched over Warpfang’s rough map. ‘This city is a warren, full of narrow streets and wide plazas. A perfect hunting ground.’ She looked at Warpfang. ‘Scouts?’

  The skaven showed his teeth. ‘Yes-yes. Flying things. Stink of the storm. They burned my warriors,’ he said, eyes narrowed. He stabbed his halberd down. ‘Here. Freed my chattel-things. Slew the gate-that-gnaws.’ Hroth laughed. The skaven sounded more aggrieved about the slaves than his warriors. Warpfang glanced at him, as if trying to determine the source of his humour. Hroth smiled and Warpfang looked away.

  Smart beast, he thought. Warpfang had shown his mettle in the Rite of Choosing, but Hroth had been Anhur’s shield-bearer since the fall of Skorch. And he had maintained his position through three Choosings of Gorechosen. He yanked on his beard. ‘I know the beings he speaks of – we’ve all seen them. Great winged warriors, hurling hammers of light and force.’ The others nodded. Many of them had witnessed the fury of the Stormcasts, winged or otherwise, at the Hissing Gates. ‘And more besides.’

  The skullgrinder nodded. ‘Apademak clashes with the foe in the outer city even now. But he will not hold them for long,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He will bloody th
em, as we must bloody them.’

  ‘And where is Anhur? Why does he keep himself from war?’ Redjaw said, thumping the ground with the haft of his spear. Hroth reached for one of his axes, annoyed by the other deathbringer’s tone. Warpfang replied before he could snatch it up and brain the whelp.

  ‘A wise leader does not race to fight,’ the skaven said, still studying the map he’d scratched out. ‘A wise leader, yes-yes, a wise leader lets others die for him, before seizing the glory, quick-quick.’ The skaven gestured, as if snatching something out of the air.

  ‘Maybe amongst your cowardly kind, vermin, but we are Bloodbound – our leaders are the first to spill blood, the first to meet the foe,’ Redjaw said.

  ‘I always assumed that they were merely the last ones standing,’ Baron Aceteryx said, in polished tones. Redjaw turned, spear raised, but Hroth thrust a hand between the two deathbringers.

  ‘Anhur has done all that you claim, Redjaw, again and again. You were not at Orrux, boy. You did not stand with us against the war-beasts of the Firewalk duardin or charge alongside the Scarlet Lord into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade,’ Hroth growled. He pointed a finger at the other deathbringer. ‘But you were at the Hissing Gates, so you have no excuse for your words.’

  ‘Aye, I was at the Hissing Gates, and I saw Anhur draw back his axe from the throat of a foe,’ Redjaw said. ‘What sort of warrior does that?’

  ‘One who takes pleasure in more than butchery,’ Volundr said. He looked around, at the other Gorechosen. ‘One who has caught Khorne’s eye, not for the quantity of his kills, but for the quality of them. Who broke the Calderan Khans and burned the plains clean of their yurts? A thousand champions tried and failed to bring the horseclans to heel, but only one succeeded.’ The war-smith hefted his anvil. ‘Eight million skulls were shattered on this anvil when we broke through the shimmering walls of the Fire Domes. Who was it who pierced their sorcerous veil and saw through their stratagems? You, Redjaw?’

  Redjaw growled, and the iron of his spear-haft groaned as his grip tightened. Volundr continued, uncaring. He gestured to Baron Aceteryx. ‘Who was it who claimed the soul of Baron Aceteryx and gained us entry into the Scorian Bastion, where even Skarr Bloodwrath himself failed to triumph?’ Aceteryx bowed mockingly, his seeping armour moaning slightly. Volundr went on, relentless. ‘Who led us to victory over the armies of Cinder, and delivered up the seven child-kings and their queen-regent to Khorne in sacrifice? By whose kindness do you wear that fine cloak, Resplendent One?’

  Volundr extended one thick arm, and let the anvil hang from his grip. It twisted slowly above Warpfang’s map. ‘The Scarlet Lord is no longer a mere aspirant, no mere deathbringer, like the rest of you. He is a warlord – a king among champions. He stands astride a rampart of victories, at the foot of the Skull Throne. He does not bring death to one foe, or a dozen, but millions. And this–?’ With a twitch of his wrist, Volundr let the anvil fall, to obliterate the drawing. ‘This is but a skirmish. He readies himself to wage a far greater war, and it is to our glory that we give him time to do so.’

  ‘And so we shall,’ Hroth said. His eyes slid to Phastet the Huntress. The deathbringer was staring at the map, concentration etched on her narrow face. ‘You have that look, woman... what are you thinking?’

  She jabbed the ground near Volundr’s anvil with the tip of her knife. ‘The enemy sees further and farther than we. So we must blind him. We draw their eye here. The Street of Vines. Shoot down the pretty birds, and take their wings.’

  ‘A cunning scheme, my lady,’ Baron Aceteryx said. ‘Blind them to our numbers, we might overwhelm them, in these narrow streets.’ He tapped the map with his foot. ‘But even blind, they’ll keep coming. They charged through the steam-clouds of the Hissing Gates, they’ll do the same here.’ He drew his blade and marked the ground. ‘Here. A square along the main route. If my warriors and I strike, we might be able to split their forces even more.’

  ‘Yessss,’ Berkut said. He thumped the ground with his standard. ‘Draw them off, peel them like flesh from bone. And then I will be the hammer which breaks those bones.’ The bloodsecrator scanned what was left of the map. ‘I will strike them here – the Avenue of Ten Skulls. An auspicious name.’

  ‘Redjaw will join you,’ Hroth said. ‘And Volundr as well.’ Redjaw made to protest, but Volundr clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

  ‘You do us much honour, Shieldbreaker,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. ‘But what of you?’

  Hroth grinned. ‘I? I will hold this plaza,’ he said, cheerfully. He fixed the skaven with a gimlet eye. ‘And Warpfang as well – you will call out your legions, vermin. The Stormcasts march this way, according the rat’s spies. And I feel no urge to run after them, like a panting dog. Let them come to me.’

  ‘Lazy,’ Berkut said, with a crooked grin.

  ‘My armour is heavy, my weapons too,’ Hroth said. ‘I am weighed down by the blood and souls I have claimed. I think I am entitled to sit and wait, priest.’ Berkut laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. Hroth wondered whether the bloodsecrator even remembered what humour was. There was little room in his mind for anything that was not related to blood and slaughter. ‘Go forth, my friends – kill and revel in that killing, for we do Khorne’s work this day,’ Hroth said. He drew his axes from the straps across his chest and clashed them together over his head. Thunder rumbled above, and the rain grew in strength. Hroth tilted his head, so that he could catch water in his mouth. It tasted achingly clean and he spat it out. ‘Go, Gorechosen – go, sons and daughters of Khorne,’ he bellowed. ‘To your assembled warpacks and gorebands go. The old foe comes, and there is blood yet owed.’

  Berkut howled and struck the ground with his icon. ‘Blood for the Blood God,’ he roared. The others raised their voices to join his, until the Plaza of Yellow Smoke shook with the sound. The gathered warriors bellowed and shrieked along with their leaders. As the sound spread, Hroth turned to see the skullgrinder watching him. The deathbringer jerked his head back towards the Sulphur Citadel.

  ‘Anhur will come soon, I trust,’ he said.

  ‘He will. He must. There is blood yet to be spilled,’ Volundr said.

  ‘The time draws close, then?’ Hroth murmured. Volundr didn’t look at him.

  ‘If all goes well. If we do not falter.’

  ‘If he does not, you mean,’ Hroth said.

  Volundr turned. ‘And you think he will? Do you truly believe such is even a possibility, Shieldbreaker?’ the skullgrinder asked. Around them, the Bloodbound mustered for war. Hroth saw Phastet the Huntress leading her band of tattooed killers down a side-street, and Warpfang was screeching orders at his hulking stormvermin. The others were occupied in similar fashion, readying their warriors for the clash to come. Bloodreavers carved the runes of Khorne in their flesh, and blood warriors clashed their blades in a savage rhythm.

  Hroth grunted and ran his fingers through his tangled beard. ‘I have seen it happen. The Path of Skulls is not so straightforward as fools like Redjaw or Apademak believe. Khorne brooks no failure, no weakness, and there are only two endings open to men like us – glory or death.’

  ‘Anhur is destined to fight at Khorne’s side forevermore, Shieldbreaker. I have seen it,’ Volundr said. ‘It is given to me to forge the strong, to make of them weapons fit for the Lord of Skulls to wield in his eternal war. The Scarlet Lord shall ascend the eight thousand steps and join the Great Game, as is his fate.’

  ‘And what of the rest of us, war-smith? What have you seen for us?’ Hroth said. Volundr did not reply. Hroth laughed. ‘Aye, I thought that’d be the way of it.’ He looked up, and let the rain sting his flesh for a moment, before he said, ‘Well... I’ve followed him this far. It’d be a shame not to see how it ends.’

  Still laughing, he left the war-smith standing in the rain. There was blood to be spilled, and skulls to be claimed. And Hroth Sh
ieldbreaker intended to do as much of both as possible, before the end.

  The stormfiend reared, warpstone armour rupturing as Orius Adamantine drove it back with a blow from his tempestos hammer. The strike obliterated one of the foul runes embossed on its crude cuirass, and drew greasy sparks. The hulking brute squealed in rage as Orius struck it again and again, keeping it away from the shieldwall of Liberators, who clashed with another of the creatures.

  In the wake of the fall of the Gnawing Gate, the Adamantine had moved to occupy the central gateway and its surrounding ramparts. With the death of the monstrous structure, the skaven had massed and begun to launch attack after attack on the golden-armoured invaders.

  Hissing hoses and whistling pipes rattled loosely along the stormfiend’s battered frame as it slashed at him with one of its vibrating grinderfists. He sidestepped the blow and chopped through the warpstone bracer it wore over one stitched forearm with his runeblade.

  Its grinderfist smashed to the street as a nauseous brackish liquid jetted from the stump of its limb. The stormfiend shrieked and dropped its other fist down on Orius’ shoulder, driving him to one knee. The stones cracked beneath him as he struggled to rise, fighting against the beast’s strength. He was forced to drop his weapons as it hunched over him, pressing down on him, the grinderfist roaring only scant inches from his head. As he fought against its hideous strength, he caught sight of its fellow tearing through a retinue of Liberators. Armoured bodies flew into the air as the berserk rat-automaton tried to force itself a path through the Stormcast ranks.

  In the wake of the stormfiends, skaven swarmed across the square towards the thin line of Liberators who occupied the ruined central portcullis of the Gnawing Gate. Prosecutors swooped low over the squealing tide, hurling their celestial hammers until the air was full of ash and blood, but the ratkin pressed forward. The assembled Liberators met the skaven charge without flinching, and hammer and sword flashed through the rain.