WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 02(R)-Dark Storm Gathering

by Chris Wraight

  Lady Arkaneth gazed dispassionately out of the tall curved window, taking some pleasure in the torment of the sea. Whenever there was distress or anguish in the world, her satisfaction was assured. The sickly glow of the risen Chaos moon only added to her morbid pleasure. From her lofty position, it was easy to imagine that the entire world was drifting into ruin. The thought of the misery and pain which such portents foreboded sent a shiver of pleasure through her body.

  ‘My lord,’ she said softly, her voice sibilant and commanding, ‘you may now tell me your news.’

  Erith, her ambassador to the Court of the Witch King, slid silently from the shadows where his mistress had been keeping him waiting for some time. He bore the twisted rune of House Arkaneth on his left cheek: a tattoo marking him out forever as a member of the clan. Though he was arrayed from neck to foot in dark armour and carried a wicked-looking curved blade, he somehow seemed like a child next to the imposing figure of Lady Arkaneth.

  Erith bowed low before speaking.

  ‘My lady,’ he said, a faint trace of fear lining his words. ‘Dread Lord Malekith has made his ruling. House Uthorin will lead the advance upon Ulthuan. Lord Uthorin will be in command of the spearhead, accompanied by his son Kaloth Coldshadow. We are commanded to provide the rearguard and to support the invasion. As instructed, I argued long in the Council for a position of greater glory for your ladyship. Some of the great houses aligned themselves to us, but Uthorin had bought the support of many. After long debate, the Witch King ruled against us. There was nothing I could do.’

  Lady Arkaneth smiled at his discomfort. He was no craven weakling, but his fear was palpable. This was good. As long as his skills were not dimmed by terror, she preferred her servants to exist in a state of suspended uncertainty. Only if he truly disappointed her would he taste punishment. She had long known that the cur Uthorin would lead the attack on the asur. The question now was what to do about it.

  ‘Very well, Erith,’ she said, keeping her voice controlled and icy. ‘That cannot be helped now. But I’m displeased with your efforts. It wouldn’t do for my principal ambassador to develop a reputation for failure. You will take command of our preparations for the invasion. If what we believe is true, the fool Finubar will answer the summons from the weakling Emperor of the humans, and the time of our revenge will come. But leave no loose thread hanging: I will not be made to look a fool by Uthorin, and you know the penalty for failure.’

  Erith nodded, evidently unsure of how to respond. As if by arrangement, a strangled noise of torment made its way up to the chamber from below. Lady Arkaneth paused for a moment to savour it, before turning her cool gaze once more on to her ambassador.

  ‘There’s another thing of which we must speak,’ she said, almost idly. ‘Ulthuan is not the only theatre in which our revered Master has plans. The battle will be taken to Elthin Arvan too. For many moons now we have had agents secreted in the lands of men, waiting for their orders to act. Their time is coming.’

  Lady Arkaneth looked at her ambassador closely as she spoke. Erith was at least aware enough not to give away his surprise at the news. Perhaps he had heard rumours of it from elsewhere. It mattered not. Stories and secrets were forever flying around Naggaroth.

  ‘We have our own loyal member of House Arkaneth in Altdorf,’ she went on. ‘The sorcerer Malek, a snake of the worst kind, and hence invaluable for such a mission. The humans, so proud in their ignorance, have no idea of what dwells beneath them in the shadows of their stinking city. Even before our enemies can come together as one, we will sow the seeds of doubt and dissension.’

  Erith nodded, his eyes lighting up at the prospect.

  ‘Indeed, my lady,’ he said. ‘They will not be hard to drive apart. And such an outcome would be a victory for our House above all. Surely then the eyes of the Witch King will look on us with more favour.’

  Lady Arkaneth looked at him sourly. For an ambassador, his flattery was clumsy. Perhaps she ought to have him replaced.

  ‘Indeed,’ she replied acidly. ‘Except that there is another agent in Altdorf as well, a Disciple of Khaine named Kalia of the House Uthorin. Now that these matters have come to a head, we can no longer tolerate the presence of a rival clan interfering in our affairs. If old Uthorin has been given the pride of leading the invasion in Ulthuan, then we must take over the mission in the Old World. So I want this Kalia eliminated, and soon. It must not look deliberate, and I have no wish to make our plans known to Malekith. A secret way must be found. Malek is resourceful, and I have trust in his guile. He must be given his orders at once.’

  Erith looked doubtful.

  ‘You wish me to go to Altdorf, my lady?’ he said, hesitantly.

  Lady Arkaneth laughed, and clapped her hands together. The noise of grinding metal rose in volume, and one of the walls of the chamber began to slide backwards.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Erith,’ she said scornfully. ‘It would take you forever, and you’ve hardly covered yourself in glory recently. If you had appreciation for the arts of sorcery, you wouldn’t ask such questions. I’ll communicate with him myself.’

  A crack appeared in the centre of the moving walls, and the two halves slid apart with a flurry of sparks. From behind them, greenish smoke curled across the floor like a forest of snakes. Something was half-hidden in the gloom. There was what looked like a huge iron bowl, a series of chains, and a dark shadow suspended in mid-air. The noise of furiously boiling liquid filled the chamber. There was the smell of something else too, at once familiar but strangely elusive.

  ‘Very well, my lady,’ said Erith distractedly, peering into the smoke-filled chamber uncertainly. ‘But why tell me all this, if you don’t wish me to carry the message?’

  Lady Arkaneth sighed, and rose from her throne. She walked over to the newly opened gap in the walls of the chamber. From beyond the great iron bowl, the noise of female druchii chanting could be made out. The smoke was beginning to clear.

  ‘Because I want you to witness this, Erith,’ she said lightly. ‘To speak to Malek directly requires a spell of great potency. He is, after all, thousands of leagues distant. Such a thing requires sacrifice. Thankfully, I am never short of volunteers.’

  The last of the smoke sank to the ground. Lady Arkaneth looked upwards in anticipation. Suspended over the iron cauldron was the body of Erith’s predecessor, the Lord Goreth. His body bore the marks of long and cruel torture. Spikes pierced his limbs and torso. He hung limp and twisted, as if his bones had been broken and strangely re-set. His bloodied eyes were half-open, and he drew shallow gasps of air with great difficulty.

  Lady Arkaneth turned to her ambassador with a savage expression on her face.

  ‘Pay heed, Erith,’ she said. ‘You know who this is. I am showing you the price of failure. Disappoint me again, and it will be you suspended over this cauldron.’

  Erith swallowed, and nodded. His mouth looked too dry to speak.

  With a snap of her fingers, aides in dark cloaks and cowls rushed to Lady Arkaneth’s side. She took a long, curved knife in her hands. The liquid in the cauldron bubbled ever more violently, and spitting globules of magic-infused oil flung themselves across the glistening floor. She watched the steel blade of the knife reflect the red light of the room with an absent expression of pleasure, before striding up to the pathetic figure of her previous servant.

  ‘Poor Goreth,’ she said, stroking his cheek gently. ‘You never learned when to keep your mouth shut. Such a weakness in a diplomat.’

  Gently, even tenderly, she pressed the point of the blade against his neck. With a conspiratorial sneer, she looked back over her shoulder at Erith, who stood back uncertainly.

  Then, with a stunning speed and deftness, she plunged the knife deep into Goreth’s neck and pulled it along the length of his torso. Whatever horrors had already been inflicted on him now played their part, and with a gurgling, strangled scream his tormented innards collapsed in a glistening heap into the steaming liquid below. The
surface of the cauldron erupted, and a column of blood, gore and crackling energy leapt upwards. Lady Arkaneth was splattered with the stuff, and laughed furiously through it, licking her lips lasciviously. Seared by the immolating fire and oil, the twitching body of Goreth was consumed with terrifying speed, and the last trembling morsels of flesh soon dropped into the cauldron, fizzing and popping. Around the figure of the sorceress, the greenish smoke swirled with renewed energy, and a sound like the rushing of wind filled the chamber.

  After a few moments the smoke began to coalesce over the tormented surface of the cauldron and take shape as a diminutive figure. Lady Arkaneth felt an enormous sense of satisfaction well up within her. There were few pleasures as acute as the successful deployment of sorcery. Behind her, Erith came slowly forward from the shadows. His face looked drained. Lady Arkaneth barely noticed him. She could feel the raw power of dark magic coursing through her body. The streaks of blood on her face and lips were hot and vital. Her pupils were dilated and her breathing heavy. With some effort, she resumed her normal attitude of studied coolness. It was timely. Before her, the shape of Malek began to show through the swirling clouds of emerald. The apparition bowed.

  ‘My lady,’ came a faint and ethereal voice from the cauldron. ‘A pleasure to gaze on your magnificent features, as always. You honour me with your presence.’

  Lady Arkaneth shot a sideways glance towards Erith, making sure he had absorbed the spectacle in full, before replying.

  ‘That’s very nice, Malek,’ she said, dryly. ‘Don’t let it go to your head. There have been developments you need to hear, and I’ll not maintain this spell for longer than I need. The invasion of Ulthuan is nigh, and I have a task for you in Altdorf.’

  The apparition smiled.

  ‘So it begins,’ said the figure of Malek, gleefully.

  Lady Arkaneth, standing beside Erith, nodded.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said. ‘So it does.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Emperor Karl Franz paused for a moment before the tall gilt-framed mirror. There were attendants fussing in the background, but he paid them no heed. None would dare approach him unless summoned.

  The Emperor was dressed in full ceremonial armour. His heavy steel gorget and pauldrons were lined with the purest gold, and his greaves were intricately engraved with passages from the holy scriptures of Sigmar. Chains hung around his neck, and the vambraces of his forearm guards were wound with the finest wire of gromril. A thick and deeply embroidered cloak hung from his shoulder, trimmed with the rarest ermine. His hair had been smoothed with beeswax and a laurel wreath placed on his head. The warhammer Ghal Maraz rested against the thick armour of his leather-studded cuisses. His gauntlets and sabatons were of the softest leather and covered by steel plates. Exquisite rivets tipped with gold sparkled in the morning light, and the jewels studded in his many medallions and badges of office winked and flashed when he moved. Their splendour was only amplified by the magnificence of the chamber around him, which was arrayed in a riot of glass and heavily polished dark wood.

  And yet, for all the finery, Karl Franz felt weighed-down, dragged earthwards by the pull of the metal, leather and fabric draped across him. He looked darkly at his reflection. He felt old, tired and angry.

  ‘I’d prefer a real suit of armour,’ he said to himself. ‘One I could wear on the field. Gold impresses only fools and the simple. But it must be done, this show. Protocol demands it.’

  Drawing a resigned breath, he whirled around to face his adjutant.

  ‘Enough. We must get started. Announce my presence.’

  The adjutant bowed, and scurried off. Other attendants raced to their places. They were happy now. Karl Franz knew they hated it when the Emperor deviated from the agreed ritual or routine. The very idea that there might be a man under all the livery, one who lived and breathed just like them, would have been utterly horrifying to them. They preferred to think of him as the regent of a living god, the embodiment of the Empire and its many lands. And that, Karl Franz mused, was probably for the best. If they knew the doubts he had, the toll of the endless burden of power, the constant need to make decision after decision, then they would serve him less well. At all times, he knew he must present his people with the front of the mighty leader, the protector against all foes. When the day came when he was unable to do so any longer, he prayed that his death in battle would be swift, and his successor would be of the right mettle. If the Empire were to stumble, even for a moment, then the malice of its enemies who remorselessly pressed against the borders would surely find the weak point and exploit it. They were already at the gates, hammering away at long-prepared defences, gibbering hordes of madness and hate.

  None knew this more than Karl Franz, with his long experience of guiding the greatest realm of men through history for so many long years. Some called him the greatest statesman of the Old World. Others, and he knew who many of them were, called him traitor, incompetent, or even worse. Though he had the Reiksguard around him at all times and warrior priests offered benedictions on his behalf every hour, he was never safe. The Dark Gods, horrors whose names were only spoken by the fallen and the heretic, would sacrifice a thousand of their chosen warriors just to see his realm toppled and his soul rendered forfeit. Only through faith and endurance could they be resisted. The task was never-ending.

  He walked slowly and purposefully down the glittering corridor after his bustling adjutant. His heavy armour was nearly soundless as he went. The human and dwarfish artificers had created a suit of such perfection that every joint, every curve of plate metal, was linked to the next without the slightest flaw. Only his sabatons clanked heavily against the hard floor as he strode, echoing down the corridors of the Imperial Palace. Ahead of him, massive doors loomed. The panels were beaten from weighty slabs of bronze and iron, and inlaid into a frame of solid oak a foot thick. Few knew the origin of the panels, or guessed at the ancient lineage of the doors. The metal in them had come, so it was said, from the shields of the chiefs and warlords Sigmar had overthrown to form the first army of the nascent Empire. As he stood before them, Karl Franz bowed his head slightly. From the other side, he could hear the hubbub die down in advance of his entrance. He grasped Ghal Maraz tightly, and whispered a brief prayer to Sigmar. Then he motioned to the attendants behind him to swing the doors open.

  ‘It is time,’ he growled.

  The massive doors rumbled apart as thick ropes were heaved by a team of straining servants hidden in the shadows of the corridor. Without waiting for them to open fully, Karl Franz strode into the chamber beyond. The air was suddenly filled with the sound of clashing and scraping metal as three dozen advisers, councillors, ministers, electors, patriarchs, priests and other assorted potentates thrust back their seats and rose to attention. Most were wearing armour of a similar ostentation and impracticality as Karl Franz’s own. Some of the electors wore helmets, ruffs and plumes of truly ridiculous dimensions. As the occupants of the chamber stirred into a position of appropriate deference, the cacophony of their movements rose into the high vaulted ceiling where an elaborate wooden roof was studded with shields commemorating the great battles of the Empire. Without looking up, Karl Franz passed underneath them. He knew them all.

  All eyes were fixed on him as he walked towards his appointed seat. With rat-like efficiency, attendants pulled a bronze-inlaid throne back from the vast round table of the council chamber and took up his cloak behind him ready to arrange it over his shoulder in the proper fashion. Concealing his distaste for such theatrics, Karl Franz placed Ghal Maraz on the polished wooden surface of the table with an echoing clang, looked around the room once, and sat down. With a flurry of activity, the rest of the chamber did likewise, and the servants retreated from the room, closing the great bronze doors behind them.

  With all its usual pomp and fanfare, the session of the Imperial Council had begun.

  ‘My lords,’ said Karl Franz, his voice low and resonant in the echoing space.
‘Thank you for answering the summons to attend this council. I know you’re all busy with your own preparations for war, and I do not call you to the palace lightly. But there are urgent matters to attend to. I will not detain you with pleasantries. Marshal Helborg, you will give us your assessment of the latest situation.’

  A figure at the far end of the table rose to his feet. All the assembled knew who he was: Kurt Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Knights of the Reiksguard and one of the most formidable warriors in the entire Empire. His ceremonial armour could not entirely disguise the heavy bandaging around his shield arm and neck. He had been in action fighting against a huge Chaos army in the east until just a few days previously, and still bore the marks of the conflict. Despite his wounds, he bore his massive carriage proudly and without a hint of visible discomfort.

  ‘My liege,’ Helborg said, in a voice that sounded like it had been dredged from the gravel of the Reik itself, ‘I am too old and artless to try and paint a cheerful picture of what awaits us. There is little hope in the east. Ostland and Ostermark are overrun. The armies of marauders I was sent to halt have been driven back, but with grievous loss. Our defensive lines along the Talabec still hold firm, but they have not yet been tested by the full force of the enemy. The plague which has ravaged the lands for this last year makes every act of campaign difficult and doubtful. Whenever we move to strike, we are forced to deal with some plague-inspired insurrection elsewhere. The men under my command are exhausted and near revolt. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. I expect it’s the same in armies under the command of others. We know the core of the Chaos host has yet to enter the heartlands of the Empire. When they come, I can’t tell what will occur. You may count on us to fight until our last breath, but whether that will be enough… Well, time and Sigmar will tell.’