Mark of Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  Rising to over twenty feet in height, dripping with pus and foulness, the greater daemon opened its large, gummed-up eyes and looked around in pleasure. Its massive mouth opened, displaying its rotten slab-like frontal teeth and tusks, and the thousands of smaller inner teeth. Worms and maggots writhed within its cavernous mouth, and a long tongue slithered out over its fleshy green lips. The tongue ended in a snapping mouth, dripping with saliva and filth. Horns like rotten branches rose from the daemon's head, hanging with algae and fungus. Beetles and grubs crawled over the creature's flesh, and maggots and worms buried under its skin. Flies buzzed around the face of the daemon, descending to feed on the liquid of its eyes and mouth, and the saliva that dribbled from its mouth down its front.

  The creature was corpulent and massive, easily as wide in all directions as it was tall. Its greenish skin hung in folds, and great tears appeared in the daemon's rolls of fat, exposing the red muscle beneath. Ribs protruded from the chest, and entrails flopped out onto the ground from its giant, distended belly. Long, spindly arms lifted high into the air, massive hands with long, multi-jointed fingers ending in cracked talons that wept blood and pus. The lesser daemons of the Chaos god of pestilence, nurglings, infested the massive creature, nestling amongst its exposed intestines and folds of fat. They pulled themselves into the rents in its flesh, seeking the warmth and comforting fluid within.

  The greater daemon gazed adoringly at these miniature versions of itself, petting them and lifting them to its bulbous shoulders. One of them poked at one of the daemon's eyes, and it flicked the diminutive creature away. One buried itself in the flesh of its armpit, clawing deep into the warm cavity, and the giant daemon plucked it up in its spindly hand and lifted it to his face. His long, worm-like tongue extended and nuzzled the small creature, which giggled, and rolled its milky eyes in pleasure.

  Gruber stepped towards the towering daemon, smiling broadly. He bowed low before it, still cradling the nurgling within the crook of his arm. The tiny daemon looked up at him with love in its putrid eyes. 'Great unclean one, you honour me with your presence.' Gruber said, speaking the Dark Tongue, the language of the daemon.

  The giant creature turned its gaze towards him and winked at him, forcing the flies gathered on the orb into the air. 'Little human.' it spoke, in a deep rumbling voice that sounded like sucking mud. It coughed, a foul, liquid sound, its whole body heaving. It hawked loudly, and spat a mucus covered nurgling to the ground. 'Little human, I thank you for drawing me forth... The Lord of Plagues is pleased.'

  'The enemies of Lord Nurgle are arrayed against us, unclean one. They wish to kill your children.' said Gruber.

  The greater daemon clutched a clump of nurglings to its breast protectively, horror on its face. 'I will not allow my pretties to be harmed.' it gargled in its booming voice. Its eyes scanned the humans on the plains below it, eyes narrowed in anger and hatred.

  The great unclean one extended one of its arms, flexing its fingers. A cloud of flies and other flying insects coalesced around its hand, flying closer and closer together, forming a rough shape. They began to cling to each other, forming the silhouette of a huge blade. The fingers of the daemon clenched together, grasping the buzzing flies. The insects melted together and changed into dark, corroded metal.

  The greater daemon hefted the giant blade over its head, and pointed the weapon towards the human army. It was covered in rust, and virulent poison dripped from the blade - every contagion, disease, illness and plague was contained in that poison. The daemon roared, and a great cloud of insects rose around him in response to the hideous sound. The nurglings added their own tiny voices to the roar, staring towards the Empire army balefully. The plaguebearers turned their dead eyes on the enemy, and began to lope towards them.

  With massive effort, the greater daemon shifted its weight, heaving its bulk forwards on legs like rotten tree trunks. Gruber stepped to the side, rubbing his hands together eagerly, and the daemon stepped again, eyes fixed on the hated enemy that would harm its children. It bellowed once more, and began to pick up its pace, stamping down the hill, a sea of nurglings surrounding it and the plaguebearers ranging out in front, loping towards the humans.

  Cannonballs smashed through the plaguebearers, ripping apart their diseased bodies. Filth sprayed from the catastrophic wounds. Explosive mortar shells detonated amongst the daemons, sending them flying through the air, their rotting flesh ripped to shreds by hot shrapnel. The human battle line was readying itself to face the daemons, and arrows, crossbow bolts and handgun shots peppered the ranks of plaguebearers. The daemons were resistant to pain and injury, and many continued their advance even with countless bolts protruding from their flesh. Many others were slain, collapsing into pools of filth, their essence sent screaming back to the Realm of Chaos.

  The great unclean one's anger grew, and it twitched as it felt every death, gnashing its teeth and spitting in fury. A cannonball smashed into its chest, piercing its flesh, snapping the ribs beneath and embedding itself deep within its body. Smoke rose from the hole, and the face of a surprised nurgling peeked its head out from inside the gaping wound. The greater daemon hissed in anger. With a roar, the daemon led its minions in a wild charge towards the army of Ostermark.

  'Men of the Empire! With faith in Sigmar, we shall prevail!' roared the warrior priest Gunthar, his booming voice carrying far, bolstering the terrified soldiers. 'Fear not the daemon! I faced far worse than this puissant Chaos lackey during the Great War, and I'll be damned if today is the day that I die. For Sigmar!'

  Raising his hammer high into the air, the warrior priest launched himself towards the approaching daemons, roaring defiantly. Without hesitation, the halberdiers gathered around him surged forwards at his side. A great shining light surrounded the priest as he ran, glowing brightest around his massive warhammer. The daemons covered their eyes and backed away from the shining light, fearful of its intensity.

  Gunthar smashed his hammer through the head of the first plaguebearer. Using his momentum, he spun around, smashing the head from the shoulders of another of the foul plague daemons.

  'Sigmar, cleanse them!' Gunthar roared, and struck the earth with his hammer. A shockwave of light and power rippled out from the impact, and dozens of the plaguebearers fell to the ground, their flesh going up in flames as they were slain.

  All across the battlefield, men fought desperately against the daemons. The men of Ostermark, with both Stefan's troops and Gruber's fighting together, outnumbered the plaguebearers heavily. They had inflicted a heavy toll on the daemons with war machines and missile weapons, but the daemons had closed with them, and six men or more were being slaughtered for every daemon that was felled. Where Gunthar was fighting, the battle fared well, the priest leading the halberdiers fearlessly, but elsewhere the state troops were falling back, overwhelmed and panicked by the pestilent daemons.

  The great unclean one ploughed into the fray, scattering plaguebearers in its haste to join the battle. With a sweep of its blade, it sent six men flying into the air, and slew four more with its return blow. Nurglings erupted from its flesh, biting and clawing. They were largely ineffectual, but got under the feet of the soldiers, and leapt upon any man who fell to the ground. The greater daemon swept its blade before it again, and another five men were slain. The other men backed away from the creature, desperate to keep their distance from the horrific, twenty-foot behemoth, gagging and retching from its stench.

  It opened its mouth wide and, with a heave, emptied its stomach contents, projecting the vileness over the press of men before it. Filled with cancerous filth, writhing worms and bile, the liquid covered thirty men, and they fell to their knees, screaming in horror and pain. Maggots burrowed into their flesh, and their eyes were burnt from their skulls by the bilious stomach acid of the daemon, the powerful liquid even eating through metal breastplates and shields. Backing away frantically, the soldiers facing the dread creature pushed against each other, and began to run from it blin
dly, trampling over those who fell in the press.

  Cackling and chortling with glee, Otto Gruber stood high on the hill, watching the carnage unfold as the daemons ripped through the army of Ostermark, slaughtering and killing. He yelped in excitement as the great unclean one joined the battle, sweeping everything away before it, and giggled as the men broke and fled before the horrific daemon. The day was his. True, he had unveiled his true allegiance earlier than he had wished, but it mattered not.

  'All goes well, does it not, Andros?' Gruber asked, eyes fixed on the battle below. Hearing no response, he reluctantly tore his gaze from the slaughter, and saw Andros lying face down on the ground, an arrow through his neck. 'What?' he breathed, and spun around. An arrow slammed into his chest, driving between his ribs and piercing his heart. The force of the blow knocked him backwards, but he did not fall. He glared up at the small group of men that approached him, and a second and a third arrow thudded into him, taking him in his leg and chest. The force of them knocked him to his knees. Another arrow pierced his eye, driving through his brain and into the back of his skull. Angrily, he pulled the arrow free and threw it to the ground.

  'Your pitiful weapons cannot harm me, fools,' Gruber snarled, ripping the arrow that pierced his heart from his flesh.

  'That right?' asked Wilhelm, stepping forwards and smashing his fist into the man's face, knocking him to the ground once again.

  The scout stood above the fat count, flexing his hand. 'Seemed to work just fine. The captain will be pleased to see you,' he snarled, and smashed his fist into Gruber's face once again as he tried to rise to his feet. The nurgling that the grand count had been cradling had fallen heavily to the ground, and it clawed towards Wilhelm, baring its rotten teeth. The scout took a step backwards and raised his bow, nocking an arrow to the string. His bow was a powerful weapon, and fired at such close range, it drove right through the small daemon, pinning it to the ground. It squealed like a piglet in pain. The count tried to scramble to his feet, and began an incantation, but the scout was too quick for him, stepping forwards and smashing his fist into the man's face once again.

  Gripping him by the shirt, Wilhelm drew the bloody count's face up to his, snarling. 'I'd like to gut you here and now, you sick bastard, but it seems that won't do no good. No, I'll leave that to the captain.' Wilhelm slammed his fist into Gruber's face again, the force of the blow driving the count's head into the ground. Standing, Wilhelm grabbed the leg of the unconscious man, and began to drag him down the hill.

  The engineer, Markus, lowered his eyeglass from his eye. 'Captain!' he shouted. The engineer jumped up and down, waving his arms over his head. 'Captain von Kessel!' Not getting any response from the captain, who was wheeling the Reiklandguard around on the plains below, making ready to charge into the daemons, the engineer scrabbled inside a leather bag. He pulled out a small clay ball. A long fuse protruded from the clay sphere, and he shortened it by biting at it frantically, spitting the string to the ground. He pulled from his pocket a small brass device, one of his own devising that contained oil, and had a small flint attached. Striking it, it produced a flame, and immediately lit the small fuse. It burst into sparks, and he threw the ball high into the air. Small clockwork wings of brass unfolded from the ball, flapping frantically, but whether they aided or hindered the device was not clear. At the apex of its journey, the ball exploded with a loud bang, and light flashed like lightning.

  The captain, pulling his horse around, heard the sound and looked up, his eye drawn to the flashing light. Markus leapt up and down, pointing across the field. Stefan looked across to where he was gesturing. He shouted an order to the knights, and they wheeled again before thundering up the hill towards the figure. They rode through a group of plaguebearers, smashing them aside. Markus, his eyeglass back in position, watched as one of the knights was dragged from the saddle by two of the foul daemons, his horse cut down beneath him. The man struck one of the creatures, its guts spilling out over the ground, and rose to his feet unsteadily. The creature he had just disembowelled launched itself at him, its ropey intestines trailing behind it, and rammed its single horn into the mans head. He fell to the ground, and was overcome by the foetid daemons. The other knights broke through, and galloped up the hill towards the scout dragging the unconscious Gruber.

  'Engineer Markus,' came a shout, and he lowered his eyeglass to see one of the crew of theWrath of Sigmarpointing, stabbing his finger down the hill. A group of daemons was loping up the hill towards their position. Markus hurriedly packed away his eyeglass, and retrieved his Hochland longrifle, hefting the heavy weapon to his shoulder. Sighting carefully, he fired, the shot smashing through the eye of the lead creature, dropping it. Marvelling at the weapon's accuracy, he lowered it, and shouted to a nearby mortar crew, gesturing at the daemons. A mortar shell was lobbed towards the creatures, detonating in their midst, tearing flesh from bones. Still, most of the daemons continued loping up the hill, despite their missing limbs and torn flesh.

  'Ready the helblaster! Fire all nine barrels on my signal,' Markus called. 'Hold it. Hold. Fire!'

  Once again, theWrath of Sigmar spat fiery death, destroying everything in its path. Markus whooped with excitement, and began to reload his longrifle.

  Captain Stefan von Kessel leapt from the saddle of his steed, and ran towards the unconscious count. The scout dropped the man's leg, and stepped away from him. 'He's all yours, captain,' he said, and signalled to the other scouts. They ran swiftly down the hill until they were in range of the daemons, and began to fire their longbows into the press.

  As if he felt the hatred in the eyes that looked upon him, Otto Gruber blinked heavily with his one good eye as he rose from unconsciousness. Stefan stepped forwards and placed his knee on the fat count's chest. With his left hand, he grabbed the count's thin hair - in his right he held the drawn elf blade, its glowing golden tip scant inches from Gruber's throat. The count's eye widened as he saw the weapon, and he struggled in vain.

  'You do not deserve a quick death, Gruber,' snarled Stefan. 'You deserve to be ripped limb from limb by horses, and for your entrails to be slowly drawn from your body. Flames should lick at your flesh, burning away the fat from your bones and boiling your eyeballs in their sockets. Your tongue ought to be ripped from your mouth, and your fingernails pulled from your fingers, one by one, but it is not to be, for I shall not lower myself to your level... This is for my grandfather, you sick bastard.'

  Without ceremony, Stefan rammed the glowing blade through the fat count's throat, pushing it deep up into his brain. Gruber convulsed violently, and then his skin withered and turned black. As if all the liquid was being sucked from his body, Gruber's flesh dried up, shrivelling away to nothing in the blink of an eye, leaving just a blackened skeleton.

  'It's over,' Stefan whispered. The glowing sword in his hand began to hiss, and he dropped it to the ground, the blade melting to nothing. All across the battlefield, the magic that kept the plaguebearers in existence was sucked away, and they fell to the ground, writhing and contorting, turning to foetid liquid and seeping into the soil.

  Only the great unclean one remained, its power too great for the death of the magister, Gruber, to affect it. It was surrounded by the army of Ostermark, and hundreds of arrows and crossbow bolts thudded into its thick flesh. It roared in anger and pain as countless handgun shots pierced its skin. Dozens of men rushed forwards, driving their halberds into the creature's belly and back, but it fought on, smashing away its enemies as if they were insects, killing a handful of men with every sweep of its fell weapon.

  It stumbled as the flagellants rushed forwards, screaming and yelling, and struck at the greater daemon's flesh with their spiked flails. The nameless ex-knight was there, exhorting his followers to do their duties, and he leapt upon the great unclean one, hacking at it with a pair of spiked maces. The daemon's flesh was torn to bloody shreds under the onslaught, and it sank to the ground. Its mouthed tongue lashed out, latching onto one of its
tormentors, ripping his face from his skull. Bellowing in rage, the daemon surged back upright for a moment, and swept its weapon before it once more, the poisoned blade cutting three flagellants in half.

  It slumped to the ground as Gunthar stepped before it, his huge hammer raised high over his head. With a bellow, he smashed it into the daemon's head, the blow driving through the skull and into the rotting, maggot-infested brain within.

  A great cloud of flies suddenly rose, obscuring everything from view. They dispersed into the air, leaving behind nothing but a bubbling pool of poison seeping into the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The black-clad body of the sorcerer knelt on the cave floor. The creature that was a part of him slithered awkwardly around the circle that the Khazag had entered, feeling at the power within. It should have been his day, thought Sudobaal. The day of his ascension, but Hroth had snatched that from him. He had been much more powerful than he had realised, and Sudobaal cursed himself for a fool.

  The creature snarled with its deformed mouth, exposing the tiny teeth within. Leaning forwards on its fleshy, snake-like tail, it extended one of its tentacles gingerly towards the swirling vortex of dark smoke contained within the circle of power. As the tentacle entered the area, there was a sharp explosion of power, and electricity rippled over the creature, throwing it backwards. It smashed against the far wall, its tentacle blackened. The smell of burnt flesh rose from the injured limb.

  With difficulty, leaning on its head, the creature righted itself, and gazed into the circle venomously, gnashing its teeth. Holding its wounded tentacle coiled, it shuffled across the floor of the cavern. It circled the black robed figure of the sorcerer, and began to approach the circle once again. Something was happening. The black shadows coiling within began to swirl with increasing velocity, and the creature cowered behind the body of the sorcerer, hissing.