by C. L. Werner
Just as he was about to pull the trigger of his pistol, he relaxed his grip and pulled his arm back.
'What are you doing?' asked Albrecht through gritted teeth, but then he saw it too.
A figure, wearing ornate armour of glinting dark green, straddled the back of the blue-green dragon. The armour was shaped to mimic the dragon he rode upon, dark green wings extending from his artfully crafted helmet. In one hand he held a long lance that glowed with golden light and in the other he bore a shield that was unscathed by any mark or dent.
'It's an elf,' breathed Stefan. The dragon roared overhead, throwing dust and debris up in its wake. The men of the Empire turned, as one, to watch the massive creature hurtle past. Great gouts of flame suddenly roared from the creature's mouth, roasting alive dozens of Norsemen, their weapons and armour melting instantly under the heat. The dragon disappeared from sight for a moment, before soaring high into the sky once again, already hundreds of yards away. A pair of Norse warriors was clutched in the claws of the dragon, and as the stunned men of Ostermark watched, they were crushed in the powerful grip and dropped lifeless to the ground. Another figure hung, impaled halfway down the shaft of the dragon rider's glowing lance. With a dismissive movement, the Norscan chieftain was thrown to the ground.
A great cheer went up as the dragon wreaked havoc upon the remaining Norse, burning and rending. The battle was won.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Warlord Hroth stood on the high rocky headland, staring out to sea, fingering his axe. The setting sun made the water look like a sea of blood. In the distance, he could see dozens of Norse longships ploughing through the sea towards the beach, mighty sails billowing in the strong winds. Hundreds of oars plunged into the water, drawing the ships forwards at an impressive rate through the rough sea.
Tall figureheads could be seen on the prow of each vessel, each unique to its ship. Some of them featured carefully crafted dragon heads, baring their fangs and curling tongues extending from their gaping maws. Others bore carved torsos and heads of daemonic entities, the gods worshipped by the Norse. Curving horns spread from the heads of many, and some had massive carved bat-like wings that spread behind them and onto the hulls of the ships. Hroth recognised many of them, although he was unfamiliar with their Norse names.
He was pleased to see that various visages of Khorne featured prominently on the prows of many of the longships of the flotilla. The Norse might call him different names, but it mattered not. Great Khorne cared not what name he was known by, only that skulls and blood were delivered to him in great abundance. One of the carvings showed him as a dog-faced bestial god of pure rage, the unmistakable symbol of Khorne engraved onto his forehead. Another showed him as a massively proportioned warrior, a sword and an axe crossed over his barrel chest, skulls hanging from his intricately carved armour.
The ships had strange mechanical apparatus built into their hulls that Hroth imagined must be machines of war and destruction. Massive spiked bolts protruded from the sides of some ships; others had rotating spiked drills that could just be seen below the surface of the water, while others had wheels with massive chains wrapped around them, which fed into the mouths of carved daemons. What these actually did was beyond him.
The longships were drawing near, fearlessly riding the massive waves that drove them towards the beach. Most of the ships had about thirty rowing benches, but there was one ship amongst the others that was truly immense, holding at least seventy - around three hundred Norsemen pulled hard on the massive oars of this giant of a ship as it powered towards the sand. This ship clearly belonged to the powerful warlord of this Norse tribe. It also bore the symbols of Khorne, the Lord of Skulls. The prow of the ship bore a bestial bronze face, and red flames smouldered in the vicious eyes of the beast. Hroth realised that the entire ship was made of beaten bronze, and he wondered how it stayed afloat.
Dozens of corpses were suspended on gibbets lining the sides of the ship. They were strung up and pierced with massive spikes that had been hammered into their bodies while they were still living. There was a slopping trough beneath the cadavers, running to the front of the ship, and feeding into the mouth of the bestial figurehead. When these unfortunates were first strung up, their blood would flow down the gore-troughs, to feed the creature.
Hroth could feel the power of the Blood God within this ship. He could feel the favour of Khorne upon the warlord that rode within it, even though he could not see the man; but the power emanating from the ship was more than just this: it came from the ship itself.
The massive, bronze face on the prow of the ship strained to one side, and its mouth opened and closed as it searched for enemies. Hroth knew that the essence of a daemon was bound within the very body of the ship. Powerful sorcery indeed was needed for such a feat, and his respect for the warlord grew. Clearly it was the power of this daemon that kept the bronze vessel afloat. Turning, he climbed down the rocky goat path to greet this warlord and his tribe.
Hroth's army was arrayed just beyond the sandy beach, and he smiled as he saw its size. On the march to the coast, he had encountered warbands that were roaming the countryside raiding and pillaging. He had slain the champions of several and taken their warbands for his own, and his banner hung with the heads of his most worthy opponents. Other, wiser champions had instantly sworn allegiance to him. Other warbands had sought him out, throwing their lot in with him, eager to gain his respect. The warriors of his initial warband, Olaf the Berserker, Barok the standard-bearer, Thorgar Skull-splitter, and the other surviving Khazags occupied a powerful position within the army. They had been at the fore of every battle, their armour stained red from the slaughter.
The sorcerer Sudobaal was waiting for him on the sand. With a claw-like hand, he motioned impatiently to Hroth.
'Come, we must meet with Ulkjar Headtaker of the Skaelings. Call forth my army. A show of my power is needed.' hissed Sudobaal.
The chosen of Khorne glared at the sorcerer. 'I shall call forthmy army.' he growled. Sudobaal glanced at him sharply. The ever-present flames that rippled over the staff that was once again fused with his arm flared brightly, showing the sorcerer's anger.
'Call my army forth. Remember that it was I who made you, chosen. I can just as easily dispose of you.'
Hroth wanted to smash his axe into the sorcerer's skull. This was not the time, he told himself, as he felt his anger building. Cutting down the cur, as pleasing as that would be, would avail him little - the runt was the only one who could locate the resting place of Asavar Kul. His fiery eyes blazing, he swung away from the sorcerer and stalked across the sand to summon his army.
'Bring the warbands forwards.' he growled to the towering, bald-headed Khazag Barok. 'Let us show these pale-haired Norscans what real warriors look like.'
The long oars drove powerfully into the icy black water in perfect unison with each pounding beat of the giant brass drum. Each oar was held by four of Ulkjar's strongest Skaeling warriors, and his flagship vessel powered through the swell towards the beach.
Ulkjar Moerk the Headtaker, like most of his kind, was tall and blond, with piercing blue eyes, yet he stood a full head taller than the largest of his warriors. His armour was black and rimmed with bronze, and he bore the symbols of the Blood God on his shoulders so that none could doubt his allegiance. A twin pair of short, wide-bladed swords hung at his belt. They had been enchanted by the greatest of all the Norse shamans, and thousands had fallen beneath them, their blood let in sacrifice to the Blood God.
His ship closed on the beach, but the beating of the drum did not relent, instead picking up pace as the breakers began to buffet the vessel. With a surge of energy, the Skaelings heaved at their heavy oars, and the daemon-infused ship hurtled towards the sand. It was lifted by the huge swell, and with a surge was driven down into the trough of the wave. White foam washed over the rear of the ship as it neared the beach. At the last second, the beating of the drum stopped, and the Norsemen lifted their oars high int
o the air as the ship hit the sand. The power and momentum of the ship drove it high onto the beach, cutting a furrow through the black sand. It ground to a halt, and Ulkjar leapt over the railing, landing lightly fifteen feet below.
Ulkjar walked around to the front of the ship, and looked up at the daemonic bronze face. Its metal neck strained, rippling with muscles as the daemon within tried to tear itself loose of its prison. Its face was over twenty feet from one side to the other, and it bared its teeth at him, a low growl echoing hollowly from deep within. It was large enough for a man to stand inside its maw without being able to reach the roof of the mouth. It was capable of ripping apart the hulls of enemy ships, and the creature's smoking red eyes regarded Ulkjar with hatred.
'Thank you for the safe crossing once again, Dweaorjner,' said Ulkjar, meeting the gaze of the angry daemon and speaking its true name. The creature, compelled by the power of its master, lowered its gaze in submission.
Ulkjar pulled off one of his brass gauntlets, stepped close to the metallic daemonic face, and ran his hand across a jagged metal tooth. Gripping his hand into a fist, he held it inside the massive bestial maw of the daemon, allowing his blood to drip onto the bronze tongue. He removed his hand, and licked the residue of blood from it. The wound had already closed.
The other Skaeling longships had beached, and their crews were pulling them higher up on the sand. Ulkjar gestured to his two younger brothers, and they fell in behind him as he marched across the sand towards the pair of figures waiting for him.
An army was arrayed behind them, drawn from dozens of tribes. It was a large force, over five thousand strong, he guessed. He cared not. An army was only as strong as its warlord, and although his Skaelings were only two thousand in number, he was the strongest Skaeling warlord that had ever lived, and would not be cowed by any man, even one who boasted a force as large as this. Only one man had ever truly impressed Ulkjar, and he had been slain the previous year. One such as Asavar Kul was rare.
The pair stood motionless, awaiting his arrival. One was stooped and cloaked in black. A twisted staff was fused to his right arm, and his skin was an unhealthy shade of grey. His features were pinched, and deep lines furrowed his face, but there was power in this one. His eyes were unblinking and yellow, cold as a serpent's. Sigils and runes of power were carved into his leathery cheeks. A sorcerer, thought the Skaeling dismissively. He had no time for such.
His gaze moved to the other man, sizing him up. Now this was a true warrior, he knew. He was shorter than Ulkjar, but was, nevertheless, a big man with massive, powerful shoulders: a warrior born. He wore blood-red armour, and a helmet topped with curving horns. His eyes were no normal eyes - flames flickered in his orbs, smouldering dangerously. Ulkjar could feel the favour of the Blood God on this man, and he knew that this warrior was one of the chosen, just as Ulkjar was.
'My shamans heard your call,' said the Norscan bluntly to the sorcerer. 'The omens showed that Kharloth, the Blood God, wished that I answer it.'
'Indeed he does, Ulkjar Moerk, Headtaker of the Skaelings,' hissed Sudobaal. 'My name is Sudobaal.'
'I know what your name is. And you,' he said, turning towards the chosen of the Blood God. 'You are Hroth the Blooded. I heard of your defeat of Zar Slaaeth. I had wanted to kill that one myself, but it matters not. Word of your growing power precedes you.'
The armour-clad chosen of the Blood God folded his arms across his massive chest.
'And I know of you, Ulkjar. You led the Norse in the attack against Praag. It is said that you clashed swords with Asavar Kul himself, and that he spared your life. Is that true?'
'It is the truth, chosen. I am not ashamed to have been bested by him.' said Ulkjar. 'None other has ever faced me and survived. None ever will.' The two chosen of Khorne regarded each other dangerously.
'It is good that you have come. The gods will it.' said Sudobaal. 'They have shown me a powerful vision, Ulkjar. The pitiful Empire believes they have won, that their lands are safe, now that Asavar Kul has fallen. They are mistaken.'
'They are never safe.' barked Ulkjar. 'They know this, and choose to live lives of fear and weakness. They know that their lands will always be raided and under the sword, for as long as Norscans plough the seas.'
'There is truth in what you say, Ulkjar, but you miss my point. The Empire believes that they have time to lick their wounds. I can make sure that they do not have this time. Aid us, and together we will gain the power to crush the Empire utterly, to finish what was begun by Asavar Kul.'
'Kul was the Everchosen. None doubt this. All the followers of the true gods swore themselves to him - Kurgan, Norscan and Hung. With his fall, the tribes of the Norse were fractured. Now we battle each other to assert dominance. There is none who can claim it. No Norscan can stand against me, but even I cannot unite the Norscans. It is the same for the Kurgan, no?'
'This is true.'
'Many powerful warlords, but none who stands above them all. You,' said the Norscan, nodding his head towards Hroth, 'I have heard of. But neither you, nor I, can unite the scattered tribes. We would need to spend our lives slaying champions to prove our worth. There will always be those who think they can overcome us. The battles would never end.'
'Asavar Kul came to Norsca. None challenged him but me. All knew his power, and none would contend it. Such a warrior comes but once every ten generations.'
'This is true,' said Sudobaal slyly, 'but I know where his sword is.'
The Norscan snorted.
'It is lost. Any who bore that blade and overcame the daemon bound within it would be truly favoured by the gods. None among the Norscans would dare to challenge such a one. But it is lost.'
'And few amongst the Kurgan or the Hung would contend with the one who wields it, either,' said Sudobaal. 'It is lost no more - I have been shown where it resides.'
Ulkjar frowned. If the sorcerer spoke the truth, then he had much to gain. If he held the sword, none could stand against him.
'My shamans, powerful as they are, cannot see it. How is it that you claim to know of its whereabouts when my shamans do not?'
'Enough of this,' growled Hroth, staring up at the taller warrior. 'Too much talk. We have need of your ships, Norscan.' Ulkjar regarded him coldly.
'Your name is spoken of in all of Norsca, chosen,' said the Skaeling, 'but so too is mine. Your power is rising like the dawning sun, but mine is at its peak - it is the sun high in the sky, bright and strong. You cannot match me.' Hroth growled and gripped his axe tightly.
'You know I speak the truth. The Blood God has seen power and greatness in us both - but do not demand anything of me, whelp. I am your better.'
As the Norscan spoke, the flames in Hroth's eyes blazed brightly. Uncaring, Ulkjar raised himself up to his full height. He knew that the eyes of the Blood God were upon the two champions, and that he looked down upon this battle of will with interest. Ulkjar also knew that the eyes of all his Skaelings and the warriors of Hroth watched the pair. He had led his tribe for two decades - he knew well the power that a great leader could inspire in his men, but also that it was a fickle thing if one did not work at it constantly.
Ulkjar was careful whenever he was under the scrutiny of his followers - always he was conscious to give off the aura of power, and of being the one in control. If he was not, then he knew he would constantly have to watch his back, and fight the inevitable challenges to his position from amongst his own tribe. He would have none of that. No, he would exert his dominance over this warrior before him, in front of both their tribes. If he could provoke Hroth, draw him into a conflict and defeat him, then those tribes must submit themselves to him.
'I will take your head, Norscan filth,' growled Hroth.
'Will you indeed, whelp?' answered Ulkjar. He was comfortable and relaxed. How many times had this same encounter played out in the past? He had long since lost count of the enemy champions he had slain. This would be no different. The chosen was powerful, true, but that would just m
ake this victory that much sweeter. He would claim the chosen's army once he was done with him, and force the sorcerer to take him to where the sword of Asavar Kul resided. Then, none could stand against him. The days of blood would begin once again. Truly he was blessed in the eyes of the gods, he thought.
'I will cut you limb from limb, Kurgan.' said Ulkjar. 'I will feed your blood to the daemon within my ship. I will take your army from you. A new era of bloodshed and terror will begin, and you will not be a part of it.' he said matter of factly, and drew his pair of swords.
'Less talk. Let your blades speak for you.'
'As you wish, whelp.'
Sudobaal smiled as the two warriors readied themselves for battle. He cared not who won this contest, and he had known that it was going to happen as soon as he had made the decision to contact Ulkjar's shamans in his dream-journeys. He had never had any doubt that Ulkjar would challenge Hroth. He was too proud and too successful a warlord to willingly submit to anyone, let alone a Kurgan. He would not care if Hroth was cut down. Ulkjar was strong-willed, but Sudobaal knew that he would be easier to manipulate than the Khazag chosen. Hroth was just too damn stubborn. He had no doubt that the Norscan was more subtle and devious than Hroth - certainly he knew how to impress his followers. Hroth's stubbornness was also his strength, however. The chosen of the Khazags did not know how to back down to anything, and he was completely single-minded in his determination. His lack of subtlety, his straightforward directness, was a powerful thing.
It was probably for the best, thought Sudobaal, that he would be slain. He wondered if he had misjudged Hroth - would he have become too difficult to handle, had his power continued to grow? Certainly Sudobaal had already found it increasingly difficult to influence the champion of Khorne. The sorcerer pushed the thought from his mind, and focused back on the contest.
