Mark of Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  The rocks surrounding the circle were suddenly blasted away, shattering into a thousand pieces, which scattered around the room. Dozens of these shards sprayed the sorcerer, lacerating his flesh and cutting his robes to tatters. No blood dripped from the wounds. The creature cowering behind the sorcerer began to pull itself frantically across the floor, trying to escape. The dark shadows were released from their bindings, and they screamed around the room, coalescing into shadowy, daemonic figures, before dispersing into the air.

  With a further explosion of rock and earth, Hroth the Blooded, Daemon Prince of Khorne, burst from the Realm of Chaos, stepping back into reality. His blood-red wings unfurled behind him, and he bellowed loudly, the titanic sound making rocks tumble from the cave roof. In one hand, he held his faithful double-headed axe, and in the other, he held the sword, the Slayer of Kings, the blade that held the power of the daemon U'zhul. Sparks rippled over the blade of this immeasurably powerful artefact.

  Turning his gaze towards the kneeling sorcerer, Hroth's daemonic, flaming eyes narrowed. He scanned the area, and his gaze came to rest on the foul tentacled creature trying to climb the stone steps that led out of the cavern. With his daemon-vision, he could see the link that bound the body of the sorcerer and this creature together, and he launched himself towards it with a powerful leap.

  It screamed soundlessly and tried to get away, falling awkwardly onto its face in its haste. Hroth reached down with one of his massive, red-skinned hands and grasped it tightly 'Get back in your flesh, familiar,' he growled, and hurled the creature across the room. It collided with the motionless body of the sorcerer, and fell heavily to the ground. Righting itself with difficulty, it threw a look of pure hatred towards the towering daemon prince, and began to burrow into the sorcerer's grey flesh.

  Colour began to return to the sorcerer's skin, and blood began to weep from the wounds on his face and hands. Sudobaal opened his eyes with a gasp, as the blood began to flow. He gaped up at Hroth, who stood some twelve feet tall. Throwing himself to the floor of the cavern, he abased himself before the power of the daemon towering before him.

  'Sudobaal, look me in the eyes,' the daemon commanded, and the sorcerer was powerless to resist. He raised his gaze to the flaming orbs of Hroth, his will utterly dominated. 'You belong to me now, sorcerer. Your soul is mine.'

  'Yes,' stammered Sudobaal, feeling a wrenching pain within him.

  'You are nothing any longer without me. I bind your soul to me; you will serve me now, and for all eternity.

  In this world or the Realm of Chaos, you will serve. You will serve me faithfully, snake, for if ever you try to break my hold over you, you know that you will be tormented in the Realm of Chaos, your soul shredded over and over, but you will never be allowed release from your pain. Never will your torment cease. Oppose me, and you will reap the consequences. You know I speak the truth.'

  Sudobaal knew the words the daemon spoke were truthful. He felt it deep within him, with a sinking horror. He collapsed to the ground, gasping in agony.

  'I go now to deal with the elves. I will return to you once I have finished. Then we will return to the Empire, and we will finish what was started.' With that, the daemon prince left the cave, leaving Sudobaal exhausted and in agony on the ground.

  A roar of terrifying rage echoed above the battle, and all who fought raised their eyes to the heavens. Hroth burst from the cave, scattering rocks in all directions, and leapt into the air, throwing himself from the cliff face. He plummeted hundreds of feet down towards the swirling melee, his wings tightly furled behind him. The wind ripped at him, and he roared as he streaked down towards the battle that was calling to him.

  Lathyerin looked up with a sense of horror to see the massive daemon streaking down from the turbulent sky.

  'Sea guard! Turn your bows skyward!' he called, swaying backwards to avoid a swing of an axe from a Norscan. As the axe sliced past him, an inch from his neck, he sent a fatal riposte stabbing into the man's chest.

  Dozens of arrows streaked into the air, many of them striking the descending daemon in his chest and arms. They bounced from his armour, and shattered on his skin, slowing his descent not at all.

  The ground trembled as the daemon landed feet first, scattering elves and Norscans alike. With a roar of pure rage, Hroth swung his axe and sword around him, cleaving through a score of elves within seconds.

  Blood fountained from the bodies as they fell around him, unable to match his daemonic power, frenzy or speed. Blades rebounded from his flesh, numbing the hands of the elves assailing him. Spears jarred as they struck him, doing little damage to the massive creature. In turn, he swept his weapons around, cutting elves apart, severing limbs and heads, and cutting through torsos with ease.

  The daemon turned and Lathyerin surged forwards, driving his glowing blade into the back of the creature. Using all his force, the elf pushed the blade through the armour of his back, the sword tip piercing the flesh of Hroth's lower back. Despite the magical nature of the sword, the blade only penetrated a few inches into the daemon. Black blood bubbled from the wound, spitting and spluttering with heat.

  Roaring in fury, the daemon spun around, lashing out with its sparking sword. Lathyerin rolled underneath the swinging blade, and came up on his knees, driving his sword towards Hroth's leg. Moving with unnatural speed, Hroth lifted his leg, and slammed his foot, a cloven hoof, down onto the shining blade, pinning it to the ground. His axe slammed down onto Lathyerin's shoulder, cutting the arm that still held the weapon from his body. Hroth rammed his daemon sword through the body of the elf, and the daemon within the blade fed upon his soul.

  Flames washed over Hroth, and a long shining lance pierced his shoulder, throwing him to the ground, crushing those he slammed into. He came up quickly, snarling his hatred, as the dragon roared overhead. Blood spat from the wound on his shoulder, and with a roar he leapt into the air in pursuit.

  The Dragon Prince, Khalanos, soared high into the air, wheeling around, hundreds of feet above the battle. Coiling itself around, the dragon pulled its wings back and descended towards Hroth, who was screaming up to meet it. Fire roared from the maw of the dragon, washing over the daemon prince, scorching its face and chest, but it paid no heed. Prince Khalanos angled his gleaming lance at the heart of the daemon flying straight up towards him.

  Hroth smashed the lance aside with a sweep of his axe, and cleaved the Slayer of Kings straight through the chest of the elf warrior. It tore through armour, flesh and bone, and the upper torso of the prince was cut from the lower body with a spray of blood, falling down into the press of battle far below. The lower part of the elf sat in the saddle for a moment, before toppling out, also falling far to the ground below. The dragon scored a series of deep wounds down Hroth's body with its powerful claws as the two creatures swept past each other.

  His daemonic blood dripping a hundred feet into the press of battle below, burning all whom it touched, Hroth turned in the air, far quicker than the dragon could, and descended towards the serpentine creature, fury driving him onwards. He smashed into the dragon as it was sweeping over the battlefield. Dropping his weapons, Hroth grappled the dragon around its long neck. His daemon sword fell, blade first, into the head of an elf, driving through his body and embedding itself in the sand. Gripping the dragon tightly, Hroth drove it down into the ground.

  With titanic force, the two massive creatures smashed into the sand, crushing dozens of elves and Norscans beneath their bulks. Hroth shifted his grip as the creature thrashed around blindly, engulfing scores of men and elves indiscriminately in flame.

  Hroth's massive muscles bulged, veins almost bursting with the exertion, but he refused to release the maddened creature, and the two of them rolled over and over. The dragon coiled itself around the daemon prince, and Hroth, releasing one hand from its grip around the throat, smashed his fist into the head of the dragon, feeling the skull crack beneath the force of the blow. The dragon tightened its coils, and Hroth's b
ones strained under the immense pressure. Still he held on, and smashed his fist into the dragon's skull once again. It thrashed around powerfully, ripping itself free of the daemon prince's grip, and uncoiled itself.

  Rearing up, the dragon roared in anger, and lashed out with its snapping jaws, intending to bite the daemon in half. Hroth caught the jaws of the dragon as they descended around him, holding them at bay. His muscles strained as the jaws slowly began to close, and he roared his fury. With a burst of power, he thrust upwards, extending his arms, and ripped the jaws of the dragon open further than they were meant to go. A horrible tearing sound accompanied this violent motion, as the tendons and jawbone of the dragon were ripped apart. It thrashed around on the blood-soaked sand, its jaw hanging open loosely, emitting piteous growls and whimpers of agony and fear. It looked up at the daemon prince looming over it with hatred. Hroth held out his hand, and the daemon sword pulled itself free from the sand, flying through the air into the palm of his hand. With a single stroke, he cut the head from the long sinuous neck. The body of the dragon convulsed on the ground before lying still.

  Hroth rose to his feet, hefting the dragon's head in one hand, and roared in triumph. He turned around, revelling in the victory. Dropping the dragon's head, he picked up his axe from where it lay on the sand beside him. Swinging his two weapons around him, he grinned, the flames in his eyes and engulfing his horns flaring brightly.

  With a roar, he threw himself back into the fray. Within the hour, every elf on the beach was slain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Aurelion sat calmly, her pale face displaying none of the emotions that raged beneath the surface of her icy demeanour. Her swordmaster bodyguard was arrayed protectively around her, not that there was any danger hereabouts at this moment. No, all was quiet within the forests for the time being - she knew there were thousands of creatures of Chaos here, both within the forest andbeneath it, but she felt that they were quiet. They were waiting for the signal.

  She closed her eyes, letting her spirit lift from her body. She soared into the night sky, hundreds of feet above the forest canopy, speeding to the east. She could see the pulse of Chaos across the lands, spreading like a plague both above the ground and below it. The taint was heavy across the Empire. She increased her speed, streaking through the night skies, revelling in the freedom that she felt.

  Aurelion had travelled to the south after the Empire captain, von Kessel, had refused to join with her cousin, Khalanos, to defeat the hated enemy. She had travelled swiftly, passing by the Empire cities of Wolfenburg and Hergig. She had no wish to visit those crowded, dirty cities, filled with desperate and pitiful humans trying to eke out an existence in those squalid conditions. No, she had bypassed them, travelling swiftly towards the city of Altdorf in the south. At Talabheim, she had intended to board a ship, and sail the River Talabec to her destination, there to meet with Lord Teclis.

  On her approach to the city of Talabheim, she had halted, feeling a familiar pulsing within her mind. Teclis! He was here! She had spoken with him the next day, and her words had been angry.

  'Why do we give our lives for these humans, Lord Teclis? I felt the death of my cousin, as you must have done. Thousands of our kin slain upon the beaches to help the humans, and for what? What gratitude do they give us?'

  Teclis looked at her, his ancient eyes filled with sadness and power, and she looked away. 'If we the Asur are to survive, then so too must the Empire of men survive.' She had felt shamed then, for she knew that Teclis, in his wisdom, spoke the truth.

  Still, Aurelion could not forget the words that Khalanos had spoken to her before he had left.'In time, cousin, you will realise that the humans are undeserving of our pity.'Indeed, she did not pity them any longer. Yet the words of Teclis were irrefutable.

  He had left her in Talabheim. He was travelling to the north, to try and stall the advance of the armies of Chaos. She had expressed her concern, and her desire to join him, but he had silenced her. 'Your place in the battle is here.' he had said, and she had been powerless to disobey his order. 'The life of the man, von Kessel, is imperative, Aurelion. Remember, the survival of the Asur depends upon the survival of the Empire.'

  She sped through the night sky, finally approaching the sleeping army of Ostermark.

  Stefan von Kessel woke with a start. He knew that what he had just seen and heard had been no dream. With horror, he knew that the elf had spoken truly, and that the forces of Chaos were within the Empire, marching southward. He still felt the accusation in the eyes of the mage, and he knew that Ostland was overrun. The feeling of guilt rose within him, and he knew that he had let his own hatred drive him on to seek the end of Gruber. That action had meant that the forces of Chaos had found what they sought, and now that it was back, more powerful than ever, the fate of the Empire hung in the balance.

  The forces of Chaos were marching on Talabheim. That grand city was weak, its militia depleted. If the enemy took it by force, then no army in the Empire had the strength to take it back. The heart of the Empire would belong to Chaos.

  BOOK FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Olaf the berserker narrowed his eyes, staring through the trees out across the snow-covered clearing ahead. There were figures there, although there were pitifully few of them. Why they had not fled before the approaching forces, he could not fathom, but he was glad that they had not. He had enjoyed butchering the elves on the island, and now it seemed that there were more elves for him to slaughter.

  Barking an order, Olaf loped into the clearing. Behind him emerged nearly a thousand Kurgan warriors, all on foot. Being one of Hroth's original Khazag warriors, one of only a hundred that remained, he held an exalted position within the massive army, and this was but one of the tribes that he now claimed as his own.

  His horsemen, scouring the forest miles in front of the advancing army, had discovered the elves just hours before. They had not engaged the foe, but had swung around them in a wide loop, to determine if they were part of a larger force waiting to ambush the vanguard of Hroth's forces. It seemed that they were not, and so Olaf ordered his tribe on towards them with all haste, eager to claim the kill for himself.

  Pounding through the snow, Olaf began to growl as he felt the blood rage build within him. He knew that as soon as battle was met he would lose himself completely to his berserk rage. It had been the same since childhood. The first time he had felt the red fury descend upon him, he had been but nine summers old, and he had killed two older boys, ripping their throats out with his bare hands. After the fight, once he had regained his composure, he had been shocked and horrified by his actions, at the amount of blood that coated his hands and forearms. Tears running down his face, he had run to his father. Listening to his son, the warrior had smiled, and hugged the child to his massive chest.'You have been given a gift, my son.' his father had said. 'You will be a mighty warrior.'

  His father's words had been true - he had become a mighty warrior, and thousands had fallen beneath his fury. Always it was the same - as battle commenced, he lost himself in the slaughter. He felt neither pain nor fatigue when in his rages, and he fought with the power of a bear. He had been stabbed and cut hundreds of times, but in his berserk fury he cared not, hacking and killing all who opposed him. At battle's end, he would invariably collapse, exhausted and lacking blood, but always he was the victor.

  Olaf served his chieftain and warlord faithfully. He had always believed in Hroth; he had always believed that the man was destined for greatness, a greatness far beyond any that he could ever hope to attain. He was pleased to see that he had been correct in his assessment, but then he had always been a good judge of character. When not in his wild rage, Olaf was a quiet, reserved man, who preferred to sit back and listen than to be the focus of attention. His growl turned into a roar as he raced through the snow towards the elves on the other side of the clearing.

  A frail figure, wearing a tall ornate headpiece and leaning heavily on a st
aff, stood in the centre of the small group of elves. The figure stepped forwards and raised the staff into the air. Flames began to fall from the heavens, raining down upon the Kurgan warriors. Where they struck the ground, the snow melted and the sodden earth beneath caught fire.

  Fire struck Olaf, hitting his face, searing him with its heat. He ignored the pain, and ran on towards the figure, gripping his pair of axes tightly. They were chained firmly to his forearms, so that he could not drop them when the red mist of his berserk rage descended - without them, he would invariably throw his axes aside and hurl himself at the enemy weaponless, ripping them apart with his bare hands.

  An explosion of heat erupted in the midst of the Kurgan, a massive column of flame that roared into the sky, instantly killing hundreds of men. Heat rolled over the other men, striking Olaf in the back and throwing him to the ground with its force. Searing hot air billowed over him, and he surged back to his feet, rage rising within him.

  The centre of the pillar of flame burned white hot, and it roared outwards suddenly, catching hundreds more Kurgan in its blast, melting the flesh from their bones. Weapons and armour turned molten and dripped to the ground, bones caught fire and turned to char, and hundreds of the Kurgan warriors died screaming. As the ring of unearthly fire expanded, Olaf screamed in rage and raced on through the melting snow, intent on reaching his foe. His wolf fur cape caught fire, scorching his back.

  Olaf's vision was red, and he did not feel the searing heat that began to burn the flesh from his bones. Within minutes, there was nothing remaining of the Chaos vanguard but a clearing of melted snow, the earth blackened by sorcerous flame.

  Stefan von Kessel stood silently on the forecastle at the bow of the massive ship, staring out across the deep water of the River Talabec. It was an hour before dawn, and a low mist hung over the river, giving it a ghostly, ethereal appearance. The morning was icy cold, winter having well and truly set in. The dark trees lining the river were heavy with snow. Stefan banged his fist unconsciously against the railing of the forecastle, breaking the ice formed there overnight.