The abomination, the Lord of Change, had come.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Artheris brought her steed to a halt. The dusk was advancing, and there was a chill wind in the east. Clouds were being driven westwards in tatters. The world’s moon was high in the sky, and light was fading fast. Sariour na Yenlui was yet to rise, but she could feel its malign pull just below the horizon. They were nearing the heart of the contagion. Her enhanced senses, attuned to the flow of magic across the world, had been guiding her for days. With every step she could feel the foul source of corruption grow in strength. Some abomination was about to occur. In her heart, she guessed well enough what it was, but could not quite bring herself to admit it. She was weary, tired of wading through the blighted land, loathe to look at another bleak stretch of forgotten country. The designs of Chaos had been long and subtle in this place, and the rot had entered the very earth itself. Compared to the soaring peaks of the Annuli or the fragrant woods of Averlorn, the grim vistas of the Old World were mired in misery.
Stern came to her side. He seemed to sense the disquiet of the earth too, even though he was as far from a mage as it was possible to get.
‘Do you think we’re near?’ he said. His voice betrayed his eagerness for the fight. After so long marching, with so much promise of war, the entire Reiksguard company were restless and impatient.
‘Very near,’ said Artheris, resignedly. She had less enthusiasm for the slaughter to come. ‘I feel a great wrong, and it is close. The enemy we have heard so much about has arrived. Prepare your men. I will guide us.’
Stern nodded. Though he kept his features steady, he couldn’t hide his pleasure in the news.
‘Good,’ he said curtly. ‘I’d begun to wonder whether this attack was coming at all. The men’ll be pleased.’
Artheris looked at him, hiding her dismay at his pleasure. Stern was a fine warrior, strong and proud. But there were forces in the world no mortal deserved to witness, and his great sword and finely-wrought armour would be of no use against the one she knew was waiting for them.
‘Pass the word on,’ she said. ‘We must make haste.’
Orders were barked down the long, winding columns of elves and men. Stern marshalled his soldiers expertly, and even the dishevelled ranks of State troops began to order themselves into tight formations. The carefree banter between the humans ceased, and a mix of expectation and anxiety fell over the entire host. The asur, most of whom could sense the proximity of fell magic, were even more impassive than normal.
The pace of the march picked up. The Reavers fanned out ahead, searching for signs of enemy activity. The Chaos moon finally rose above the horizon. It was full. Its scarred face reflected poisonous light over the dark landscape. It was perilous to look too often at the sickening orb, but Artheris allowed herself a glance. The warped and marked surface looked like a grotesque face, laughing uncontrollably at the unhappiness of the world below. She turned away in disgust, and urged her steed onwards.
No mage’s ears were needed to hear the first sign. The rumble and boom under the surface of the earth knocked many of the soldiers from their feet. The ground continued to shake, and even some of the elven contingent looked up at her anxiously.
‘Now is the time!’ cried Artheris, rising in her stirrups and addressing all those around her. Her voice was as measured as ever, but subtle art carried her words to all those in the straggling army. ‘Men of the Empire! Asur of Ulthuan! Control your fear. There are great powers amongst us. Now we ride. Ride to the enemy. Dawn shall come again!’
The massed companies responded with a roar of acclamation. Artheris kicked her horse onwards, and around her the entire army surged forward. The Reavers and knights led the charge, thundering towards the ridge ahead, their steeds tearing up the earth as they went. The archers, spearmen and Imperial soldiers followed in their wake, running hard. None were as swift as the Swordmasters. The memory of their failure in Altdorf still burned fiercely, and they swept forward in a single wave of silver and white. Their naked blades flashed in the moonlight, taking the corrupted light of Morrslieb and reflecting light as pure as ithilmar. Beyond the northern horizon, lurid lights were tearing across the sky. The enemy had come. Artheris mouthed a prayer.
Schulmann looked up in horror. The ground beneath his feet was moving, and fighters on both sides were losing their feet. A few hundred yards ahead of him, where the underground chambers of the temple were buried, a huge dome of earth and stone was raising itself, surging upwards in defiance of all reason. It looked as if the world was being reshaped by the gods themselves.
‘Fall back!’ he cried, his voice cracking.
The order was unnecessary. Men were running away from the rapidly rising hillside in droves. Even the deranged cultists had forgotten about the battle and stood in confused clusters, gazing at the ever-expanding swelling. Waves of ruin and sickness radiated outwards, and Schulmann found himself breaking into a run alongside his men. Whatever was coming, it could not be fought by such as him.
He realised only slowly that Fassbinder was at his side.
‘What in Sigmar’s name…?’ the captain started, his expression as horror-struck as Schulmann’s.
‘Nothing natural,’ cried Schulmann, grimly. There was a crushing aura of fear and malice permeating the air.
He risked a quick look over his shoulder. The dome of earth began to crack open as it enlarged. Shafts of angry light burst from the dark crust. A fiery glow was revealed within. It was as if the underworld was rising to the surface.
Suddenly, there was a huge, muffled boom from within the cracking dome. The entire skein of earth and stone burst open in a massive explosion. Detritus flew high into the air. Rocks rained down in every direction, crushing cultists and Imperial soldiers alike. Schulmann and Fassbinder both threw themselves to the ground as the deadly rain continued.
A high-pitched scream emerged from the centre of the conflagration. Schulmann turned back to face the temple, brushing the earth and stones from his body. The swelling of tortured rock had burst, blasted away by whatever dark forces had been unleashed within it. Now a wide cauldron of blood-red light welled up from the sides of the newly-created crater. The sense of dread and horror, strong before, became almost overwhelming. He knew he should begin to rally the men, draw them together to face whatever was coming, but he couldn’t move. Fassbinder was similarly static beside him.
Streaks of lightning crackled around the edges of the opening. The flames within seemed to die down, but were replaced by an unnatural sapphire glow. Something was rising from the ruins. Enormous wings extended into the night sky. They glowed with an eerie, shifting blue sheen. Slowly, deliberately, vast pinions unfurled. Schulmann had to work hard to quell the rising panic within him. He had heard stories of the strange creatures of Chaos before, but this was something else.
A massive head rose from the lip of the crater. Giant, unblinking yellow eyes cast a baleful gaze across the entire scene. Even from such a distance, Schulmann could see the swirls of light revolving around the pupils. It was scanning the land, and its gaze felt like an icy blast of stormwind when it passed.
The huge creature crouched low, and then leapt into the air. Its enormous wings flapped in an ungainly fashion. It landed a few dozen feet from the crater, its back hunched and limbs crooked. It was a strange mixture of characteristics, at once awkward and frail-looking, but also radiating a sense of crushing, awful menace. It was hard to look directly at it. When he tried, Schulmann’s found his eyes wouldn’t focus. His overwhelming instinct was to run. If his limbs had not frozen, he would have surely done so.
The monster raised its staff into the night air, and screamed once more. A shaft of forked lightning tore down from the heavens, bathing it in a blinding cloak of light. The earth itself recoiled against the claws of the creature, rupturing and boiling like water. Any humans close to the abomination began to mutate wildly, and their screams tore into the air. Cultists and attackers alike
flailed, foaming at the mouth. Those nearest exploded into impossible shapes, morphing and changing with dizzying speed. Their flesh was ripped apart, only to be replaced with new hides of dazzling colours and textures. Many of those out of range of the worst of the daemon’s power fell to the ground, wailing and clawing at the earth in madness.
Schulmann turned his face away, hands shaking, panic rising. Despairingly, he looked up at the hills around. They were lined with silhouettes. Giant armoured figures, many crowned with spikes or twisted hooks were outlined against the night sky. Some of his men were heading right for them, running as fast as they could from the horror at the crater’s edge. With a dreadful sense of purpose, the shadowy newcomers began to advance towards the temple. In their midst, a single towering individual rode on a nightmarish horse. His armour was huge, far larger than that worn by a normal man. Even in the dim light Schulmann could see it shifting madly, warping from shape to shape as it came. As if excited by the coruscating horror waiting for it, the dread warrior’s outer skin had burst into a dreadful, mutated life. Schulmann felt the last shards of hope leave him, and he began to shake uncontrollably.
Fassbinder rose. He looked impossibly frail next to the towering form of the daemon and the massive frames of the Chaos warriors. His face was pale with fear, but he held his sword firmly and did not tremble.
‘Men of the Empire!’ he roared, waving his blade high. ‘To me! Remember your duty!’
Some of the few troops who had not yet succumbed to wailing incoherence or a suicidal flight into the ranks of Chaos warriors heard his desperate cry and hurried to his position. No hope glimmered in their eyes, but still they came.
Schulmann, shamed by Fassbinder’s resolve, rose shakily to his feet and stood beside him. His knuckles were white around the grip of his sword.
‘There’s no escape,’ he said, his voice trembling.
Fassbinder nodded, surveying the scene of madness and desolation.
‘No,’ he said. ‘This is the end. But we can sell our lives as men.’
The warriors on the horizon had launched themselves into a rolling charge. The vast figure on horseback reached the first motley bands of survivors, and laid into them with a mighty warhammer. Seeing the carnage, the daemon grinned viciously. Myriad lights began to coalesce around its staff. With every second, its awareness seemed to be growing. It took a faltering step towards the scattered bands of humans.
‘So be it,’ said Schulmann, the certainty of death calming his fear. ‘As men.’
Alexander shook the rubble from his back and emerged groggily into the open once more. He looked up to the sky. The roof of the chamber had gone, blasted out and upward. Around him, Dieter and Annika were doing the same. Morgil stood above them, his normally inscrutable face marked with horror.
‘A Lord of Change,’ the elf hissed.
Annika hastily brushed herself down, hands shaking.
‘A foe beyond any of us,’ she said grimly, reaching for pistol. ‘Where has it gone?’
Morgil pointed to the lip of the crater.
‘The surface,’ he said. ‘It failed to notice us. Or perhaps we were beneath its contempt.’
The altar chamber and many other adjoining rooms had been unroofed by the trauma of the Greater Daemon’s birth. Fires still flickered in the rubble. Most of the earth above them had been consumed by the energies of the summoning or flung out in every direction, but the altar itself was subsumed in broken masonry. The sides of the crater extended upwards in a sheer curve, laced with the residual flickering of dark energy.
Dieter retrieved his sword from the rubble and turned to the others, a look of fierce desperation in his eyes.
‘We can climb these walls. Though it may do no good, we must contest this monster.’
The knight turned and began to scramble up the treacherous slopes of the crater, labouring hard through the unstable earth. Annika finished loading her weapon, and followed him. Alexander pulled his staff from a pile of broken stonework and wordlessly began his ascent. His entire body ached from the many lacerations caused by flying splinters of stone. At the back of his mind he wondered what had happened to the dark elf sorcerer, but he was nowhere to be seen. Even Morgil seemed content to let him go and stay with them for the time being. The horror of the daemon was all-consuming. There was no hope of any of them defeating such a monster. A Lord of Change was one of the most deadly and mysterious creatures in the entire world, spoken of in hushed tones only in the very heart of the Bright College. To witness one was to gaze into a world of insanity. Though clad in a beguiling rainbow of mysticism, Alexander knew full well what it was capable of. Even with Annika at his side there was no hope of hurting it. Morgil’s skill at arms would be useless. Whatever Dieter may have said, they all knew the truth. They would die before even raising a weapon against the monster.
Despite the treacherous surface, they made rapid progress up the slope. From above, the noise of screams rose. The daemon was becoming active, and flashes of lurid light raked across the sky. But there was something else too. The sound of arms clashing. It seemed as if the entire valley was consumed with battle. Alexander hurried upwards as fast as he could. All things were coming together. His staff throbbed with pent-up energy, fuelled by the fire all around. He felt his fear give way to a kind of resigned equanimity. Something within him remained calm, even confident. Gorman had told him that war was the making of some men. Perhaps Alexander finally knew what he meant. It was as if everything leading to this moment had been a preparation for his final acts as a wizard. He was ready.
As he reached the crater’s edge, the wind and fire whistling around his ears, he leaned heavily on his staff, feeling the energies coursing within it. Annika, Dieter and Morgil were beside him.
The fury of battle was laid out before them. The remnants of the forces they had brought from Castle Heinrich were close by. They had attempted to rally, but were rapidly being surrounded by a horde of armoured Chaos warriors. More were descending from the hills around. Some were of a vast size, titans amongst men. The heavens flared with ripples of sorcerous light, and Morrslieb had eclipsed the natural light of Mannslieb entirely. The daemon was wading with nightmarish slowness into the fray, and beams of lustrous energy sprung from its staff. Mutated spawns splattered and mewled in its wake. The very air hummed with madness.
‘For Myrmidia and the Empire!’ cried Dieter, whirling his mighty sword around his head.
The knight surged forward, lumbering towards the desperate band of human warriors in a hopeless attempt to bolster their defences. With grim faces, the others did likewise. Alexander began to run wildly, his robes flying behind him, fire bursting from his staff in streaming, white-hot arcs.
The maelstrom had come at last. And they were heading into the heart of it.
Jhar’zadris thundered down the slope, relishing the feeling of power. He swung his warhammer in a huge, lazy curve, bringing it down on the back of one fleeing Imperial soldier. He had not expected to find any resistance at the temple. Clearly, something had gone awry with Grauenburg’s plans. But it mattered not. The Lord of Change was in the world, and the Chosen gloried in the immense power projected by the daemon’s aura. The remaining humans would be swept aside in moments, and then they would march together towards the real object of all their endeavours.
A robed cultist, his face a mixture of ecstasy and terror, blundered into Gromarth’s path. Jhar’zadris stooped to grab him by the throat. The little man flailed wildly. Jhar’zadris threw him upwards as if he were made of mere rags. With the unfortunate Chaos worshipper still tumbling in the air, Jhar’zadris hefted his warhammer and brought it across in a curve of dazzling power and speed. The head of the hammer passed straight through the body of the cultist, spraying bone and blood in a grotesque explosion. The troops around Jhar’zadris cheered maniacally, grabbing at the gobbets of flesh and gore, before daubing the remains over their own armour. Bloodlust had descended, and the feast had begun.
&nbs
p; Jhar’zadris urged Gromarth towards the Lord of Change, which was making its way steadily towards a small cluster of human warriors near the edge of its birth-crater. The Greater Daemon spied him, and waited for his approach. Impossibly tall and spindly, the towering monster looked awkward, as if deliberately mocking the regular proportions of the world. But Jhar’zadris could feel the deep, subtle and terrifying power leaking from its aura. Others of his kind had underestimated daemons of this order, and had paid for their arrogance. He would not make the same mistake.
Arriving beneath the gargantuan body of the Lord of Change, Jhar’zadris raised his warhammer in salute.
‘Hail, Herald of the Grand Schemer!’ he cried aloft in the Dark Tongue. It was a pleasure to use the shifting, mellifluous language again.
The daemon gazed down upon him. In those eyes, terrible and deep, was contained the weight of past, present and future, all the knowledge and malice of a true master of pure sorcery. Alongside wisdom was madness. The daemon was a living embodiment of flux, and even the Chosen felt his resolve crumble. Overcome with a kind of terror and ecstasy, Jhar’zadris dismounted and knelt before the presence of the Lord of Change. Magic flowed all around him in vast swathes. The air shimmered, the earth hummed. Jhar’zadris’s armour blazed with brilliant light, basking in the waves of pure Chaos emanating from the Greater Daemon. For all his long service in the ways of the Ruinous Powers, the Chosen felt drunk on the heady flood of power resonating around him.
The daemon turned its gaze away, and Jhar’zadris felt the overwhelming power ease. The Lord of Change extended a long, emaciated arm. Jhar’zadris looked to where it pointed. Along the hillside to the south, a new force had arrived. Ranks of armoured humans were pouring towards the temple. Riders in white led the charge, and knights on heavy chargers followed in their wake. There were Swordmasters amongst them, their ithilmar flashing coldly in the fiery night. Banners of Ulthuan and the Reikland had been raised on the ridge. The dark elf Disciple had been right. A new army had come to meet them. Jhar’zadris’s augmented senses could see the tight fury on the faces of the foremost. Amidst them there was a woman. A mage. The Chosen could feel her presence even over the all-encompassing aura of the Lord of Change.
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