by C. L. Werner
Behind the rival champions, the warbands began to strike their weapons against their shields in perfect unison, grunting each time they struck. The square echoed with the sound, and it got louder and louder as the two rival champions began to circle each other. This was a ritual that had been performed by Khazag champions for countless generations, and each man knew that the gods themselves were looking down, eager for the spectacle to come. Both warriors were chosen of their gods, each having been granted powerful gifts that set them apart from the other tribesmen. Both had slain a dozen other chosen champions in duels such as this.
Slaaeth's whip cracked out, seeking Hroth's eyes. He turned his face, so that the barbed whip merely scored his cheek. He tasted his own blood on his lips, tasted the power within him. With a roar, the Khornate champion leapt forwards, swinging his axe in a murderous arc.
The slender Slaanesh champion danced to the side, moving gracefully despite the black armour he wore. As Hroth's axe hissed harmlessly past him, he lashed out with his curved blade. It bit deep into Hroth's red and bronze shoulder guard, sliding effortlessly through the powerful armour. The Khorne champion snarled in pain. As he stepped away, Slaaeth flicked his whip out, and its barbs nicked at the flesh of Hroth's neck.
Hroth circled back around, eyes fixed on his opponent's every move. Feinting a blow towards Slaaeth's head, Hroth swung his axe low in a strike towards the groin. The zar swayed back out of the way, and swung his curved sword towards the head of his foe. Hroth ducked out of the way of the attack and made to step in to hammer another blow at his foe, but Slaaeth had twisted away, and lashed out once more with his whip. The thong of the whip wrapped around one of the horns of Hroth's helmet, and ripped it away from his head with a yank.
Hroth snarled, his eyes blazing with fire, and he leapt again at the agile zar, axe hissing through the air. Slaaeth stepped neatly to the side, but he could not avoid the return blow. Hroth slammed the shaft of his axe into his opponent's face. The zar staggered back a step, and only his preternatural speed saved him from the murderous attack that sliced through the air towards his neck.
The pair circled each other once more. Blood dripped from the wound on Hroth's shoulder, and the minor cuts on his throat and cheek. Slaaeth's face was bruised and bloody.
The champions stepped into each other, axe and sword flashing. Slaaeth moved effortlessly, always keeping just outside of the reach of the heavier Khornate warrior. He danced in from time to time to strike a blow, but most of his attacks were being turned aside by Hroth, who seemed to be getting stronger and faster as his anger grew. A minute passed. Blood was streaming from a cut to Hroth's side.
Slaaeth slashed a blow towards the wounded side, and Hroth stepped in and grabbed the smaller man's wrist in a bone-crushing grasp, halting the blow mid-swing. Dropping his whip, the zar's free hand flashed down and came up a fraction of a second later with a barbed dagger that he plunged into Hroth's forearm. Slaaeth's long tongue flashed out, punching through the flesh of the Khornate warrior's cheek before flicking back. Hissing, Hroth pulled the zar towards him and slammed his forehead into the face of the Slaanesh champion, crushing his nose. Still holding onto the zar's wrist, he brought his knee up into his foe's groin. Again, he slammed his armoured knee into his enemy, who slumped. Only then did he let go with his left hand, swinging his axe high over his head.
The zar rolled backwards, snatching up his whip. Once again the whip lashed out. Keeping his axe aloft with just one hand, Hroth grabbed the reaching thong of the whip in his fist, pulling the zar off-balance. Then he slammed his axe into the zar's neck. His head, white hair trailing behind it, flew through the air and rolled across the ground.
Hroth ripped the dagger from his forearm and threw it to the ground. Turning, he walked towards the zar's shaman. The other members of Slaaeth's warband backed away from the man, who began to speak quickly, raising his hands defensively before him. Without ceremony, Hroth slammed his axe down into the head of the shaman, cleaving it from the crown to the jaw. The man fell to the ground. The branch-like tendrils that connected the staff to him drew back, pulling free of the dead flesh and leaving gaping holes in the shaman's hand and forearm. Hroth kicked the twisted staff away from the corpse, and rose up to his full height, staring venomously around at the warband of Slaaeth.
'Any man who wishes to join me may do so. Any who does not, speak now and face me.'
There was silence around the courtyard. Hroth stepped towards the closest of Slaaeth's warriors, a man with the eight-pointed star cut into his forehead. Hroth reached for the man's dagger and drew it from its scabbard. Raising his own hand, Hroth cut into his palm. His blood bubbled as if it was boiling from the cut. He held the wound to the man's face, cupping his mouth and nose. The man started as the boiling blood touched him. Hroth removed his hand.
'You are blood-bonded to me. You have become one of my battle brothers this day,' said Hroth.
The man held both palms upwards and bowed his head to his new chieftain. He looked upon Hroth in awe - the chosen of Khorne knew that the warrior could taste the god's power in his blood.
The other warriors began to gather around Hroth so that they too could become of his tribe.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The last week had been a blur of activity for Stefan von Kessel. He was weary and footsore, but each night he slept better than he had for years. A gruelling fourteen hours of marching each day, followed by setting up camp for the night, six hours of rest with watch duty every third night, and breaking camp before dawn the next day was a demanding task.
The captain's army had expanded, for the reiksmarshal had requisitioned more of the count's troops. These included more of Ostermark's state troops, mainly spearmen and a number of additional bow-armed scouts. They were lowborn, down to earth and simple men, but their hearts were brave, and their hunting skills were welcome, for they brought fresh game to camp each evening.
The reiksmarshal and two hundred of the Reiklandguard knights rode alongside the marching army of Ostermark. These were awe-inspiring figures to the common soldiers, and they were neither aloof nor arrogant enough not to mix with the Ostermark foot troops after a days march. Stefan was pleased to discover that these were not wealthy, upper class knights who had bought their way into the order for political gain. No, these were hardened warriors, each one a veteran of dozens of battles. Every one of them had fought in the Great War Against Chaos, and all were on the field the day that Magnus rode with them when they had routed the enemy outside the grand city of Kislev. They were earthy men, chosen for their bravery and their skill in battle.
Von Kessel learnt that this newly formed order was unique, for its knights were drawn from the very best of all the other knightly orders to form this elite cadre. Heroes all, he felt honoured to be marching at their side.
His mind drifted back to Gruber's tent a week past. 'I want Captain von Kessel here to lead it.'
The tent had been silent as the words sank in. Johann's face twisted in anger. Gruber's jaw dropped open. It was the count who had spoken first.
'This is, this is... unacceptable.' he stuttered.
'I think you will find it is perfectly acceptable, Grand Count Gruber.' said Reiksmarshal Trenkenhoff coldly.
'But von Kessel is mine! He is unsuitable for the position, surely. No, his place is here.'
'He may be your man, butyou are theEmperor's man, and here and now, I am the voice of the Emperor. You cannot defy me, count.'
'Reiksmarshal.' said Stefan. All eyes turned to him - most had forgotten he was even there. 'I am honoured by this, but I feel I am not... worthy of this honour.'
'There! Even the boy doesn't think it's a good idea!' proclaimed Gruber.
Trenkenhoff turned his steely gaze towards von Kessel. 'Why do you feel that you are unworthy of this duty the Empire demands of you?'
'Do you not know of my grandfather?'
'I do. What of it?'
'Well, I thought that the dishonour I bear would - ' began Ste
fan, but the reiksmarshal cut him off.
'I don't give a damn who your grandfather was or what he did. This is not a duty you can decide not to accept. I carry the Emperor's word. I outrank you, count, and I certainly outrank you,captain. If your Emperor demands your service, then you will damn well serve. Or you will hang.'
'Ready your men, captain. We leave at midday tomorrow, marching hard. Make sure they are well provisioned.' And with that, the reiksmarshal had turned on his heel and stormed out of the tent.
Stefan smiled and shook his head as he recalled that strange night. The Reiksmarshal Wolfgange Trenkenhoff had spoken to him as the first light of dawn was seeping over the camp. 'I spoke the truth in that tent.' he had said. 'I donot care what shame you feel you carry. It is of no interest to me. The only thing I care about is you leading your soldiers well. What you displayed in Deep Pass was initiative and self-belief. You knew that the attack on the Chaos encampment was going to work, did you not?' Stefan had nodded. 'You acted quickly and calmly, evaluating the situation and responding boldly. That is a rare thing, von Kessel. A rare thing indeed.'
'The Empire was formed by such bold moves, and its survival rests on them. Had Magnus not taken the bold step of attacking the Chaos forces in the north, but rather done as the electors wished, and waited within our castles and cities like frightened children for the hammer blow to fall, the Empire would, I believe, have been shattered utterly, by now. Had the power of Asavar Kul, curse his soul, not been broken on the plains of Kislev, then he may even now have been storming our capital city, Nuln, and slaughtering our people in their tens of thousands.'
'Always remember that, von Kessel. Act thoughtfully, act intelligently, and act boldly, but always remember to act! For to do something, even if it turns out to be the wrong thing, is much less dangerous than to do nothing.' The reiksmarshal paused for a moment before he spoke again.
'And if I ever hear you publicly doubt yourself again, I will kill you myself.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eight circles were marked on the cave floor in red powder, surrounding the kneeling black robed figure. Each of the circles overlapped with its two neighbours, and an offering to the gods lay in the centre of each. One was a small pile of bones, while another held a blood-red stone riddled with purple-red veins that throbbed and pulsed with light. A skull sat in the centre of another of the circles, horns protruding from its brow and its chin elongated, splitting into another pair of bony horns. The thighbone of some massive beast lay in another, its length covered in intricate, swirling scrimshaw.
In the centre of the circle directly in front of the kneeling figure was a heavy brass icon depicting the eight-pointed star of Chaos, and in another was a small white stone, perfectly round. The air shimmered around the white pebble. The last offering was a beating heart, sitting on a golden plate. One circle lay empty.
Little light entered the cave, and the hood of the kneeling figure was pulled down low, obscuring its face. Its arms hung limply at its side, dead-white claw-like hands touching the cold stone floor. They twitched spasmodically, and the arms began to move. Reaching up, the figure drew its black robe from its chest, exposing a tautly muscled, lean torso covered in scars. The skin of the torso was a sickly pale colour, and blue veins could be seen under the translucent skin.
From the shadows, a grotesque shape moved towards the kneeling figure. Its movement awkward, it slithered across the floor, stopping just outside the red powdered circles. Its malformed, babyish face was perched atop a worm-like tail, and it pulled itself forwards with a pair of tentacle limbs. Its eyes were slitted like those of a snake, and they glittered yellow.
Raising itself with some difficulty, it lifted one tentacled limb over the red powder, and then another. Its face twisted in concentration, it carefully shifted its weight forwards, leaning on the side of its face, and lifted its tail over the circle. Carefully it repeated the manoeuvre, so that it sat before the kneeling figure. It raised itself as high as was possible on its tail, mouth opening soundlessly, exposing small, sharp teeth.
The robed figure reached out and picked up the disfigured creature, turning it around so that its tail touched its belly. The thing squirmed, gnashing its teeth, and its tail began to burrow into the figure's flesh. Its tentacles too began to burrow deep into the pale figure's belly, pulling the creature further and further inside the black robed man's body. Soon all that could be seen was the hideous face of the creature, and then it too was swallowed by flesh. Colour began to return to the kneeling figure's pale body, and the blue veins disappeared.
Closing the black robe, the figure rose to its feet. It swept a hand in front of its body, and a sharp wind entered the cave, scattering the red dust. The circles disappeared, and the figure marched from the cave to meet the victorious champion.
Hroth was pleased with the new addition to his standard. Slaaeth's head, hanging by its long white hair, stared blankly ahead. The chosen's mouth was hanging open limply, and his tongue lolled from his mouth, almost a foot long. As much as he had disliked the Slaanesh champion, there was no doubting that the gods had favoured him, at least for a time. His head was a worthy addition to the trophies of Hroth the Blooded.
Stomping through the dense undergrowth, swatting twisted, grabbing branches out of his way, he recalled the words of Slaaeth.Sent like a dog, he had said, to fetch the staff for his master.
He scoffed. No one was his master, he thought, kicking a rotten log from his path.
He hated the dark, dense forests of the Empire. He knew that they served his purpose, for even when its armies were at full force the weak Empire men could not patrol every square mile of the massive forests that filled their lands. Dark things lurked in the hidden depths where no men trod, and thousands of beastmen infested the deeper reaches of the forests. Still, Hroth loathed feeling so enclosed. The trees were giant twisted things that had grown into all manner of contorted shapes. Their branches far overhead wove into an impenetrable covering, letting no hint of light through. Thick, rotting mulch covered the ground, the thin layer of ice that lay atop it cracking as Hroth stepped through the dark wilderness.
The darkness itself did not bother him. No, he was used to that. In the homeland of the Khazags, months of travel to the far northeast, almost half the year existed in darkness, for the sun rose barely above the horizon. The land of the nomadic Khazags was open, and almost completely free of vegetation. Good horseman land. Craggy dark rock covered its slopes, ragged and sharp. Steaming pools of sulphur-rich water could be found amongst some of the rocky peaks, occasionally bursting forth as towering geysers when the gods were hungry. That was the landscape that he was comfortable in, with the skies open above him, never with a roof over his head.
He also hated skulking around in the shadows. Again, he knew it was necessary, for his warband, though growing, was not large enough for him to march straight through the Empire. Nevertheless, it rankled. Facing the enemy on the field of battle, that was what he longed for. To face the might of the enemy head on, and to triumph, that was the way of Khorne.
Hroth stalked into the clearing. The ground was blackened with fire, and a group of warriors stood at its centre. They saw the approaching Khorne champion and his warband, and turned to face him. One of them, wearing fully enclosed black armour, walked forwards to meet him. A dull red glow could be seen through the slits in his helmet, emanating from within. He halted in front of Hroth, who folded his arms and stared at him hard before nodding his head in greeting.
'I see you, Hroth of the Khazags.' the warrior intoned, his voice muffled. 'I see you, Borkhil of the Dolgans.' 'You were the victor then. I was not so sure that you had the power to take Zar Slaaeth.'
'I am pleased to have proven you wrong.' growled Hroth. 'The Blood God is with me.'
'Just as the Dark Prince was with Slaaeth. Then the Lord of Pleasure is a fickle one, easily bored by those whom once he favoured.' 'The devious one is not to be trusted.' said Hroth. He had met Borkhil on severa
l occasions, for he was never far from Sudobaal. Borkhil and his ruthless black armoured warriors were utterly dedicated to the sorcerer, hailing from the same tribe, and recognising the power that he wielded. Looking over Borkhil's shoulder, Hroth stared at the other warriors. Two were Kurgan chieftains known to him, powerful warriors both. Another was a tall, broad shouldered chieftain of the Norse, his eyes blue and piercing, and his long blond hair knotted with charms and fetishes. The last was a shorter man wearing heavy furs and no armour upon his chest. His skin was daubed with paint, and a bestial skull obscured his face. Another Kurgan chieftain, Hroth reasoned. He saw that the man's legs ended in cloven hooves.
'Did you find what our Lord Sudobaal sent you to retrieve?' asked Borkhil.
Hroth bit back an angry reply. 'I broughtyour lord what he wanted, yes.'
'This is good. The word can be spread to the scattered tribes. Our grand success and our Lord Sudobaal's ascension grows ever closer.'
'Where is the sorcerer?' asked Hroth sharply. The black armoured figure of Borkhil was silent for a moment, looking at the glowering champion of Khorne before him.
'You are a powerful chieftain, Hroth the Blooded of the Khazags. Your victories are many, and all can see the favour of the gods upon you. You have been blessed, for you have become chosen. You have proven yourself a valuable ally of Lord Sudobaal.'
'But always remember that he ismore powerful. His skill in the Dark Tongue is the equal of the most favoured shamans of the far northern tribes. He surpasses the skill of any witch of the Khazags. When he speaks the Dark Tongue, the gods themselves hear him, for he is their oracle, and they grant him great power. He commands a dozen powerful chieftains. You are but one of them, remember. Never let your foolish pride make you his enemy.'
Before he could reply, Hroth saw the black robed figure of Sudobaal making his way down the rocky rough ground that rose above the other end of the clearing. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as the sorcerer approached, and could taste the sharp, electric taste of magic in his mouth. He hated the sensation, but repressed his dislike.
