Worthy adversaries, at last. Tzeentch be praised.
Jhar’zadris hurriedly mounted, and let slip a massive, many-dimensioned roar. His entourage paused in their slaughter and looked up. Seeing the newcomers, they kicked their steeds to join him. Without waiting for them, Jhar’zadris rode towards the advance of the human and elven reinforcements. His armour blazed with a thousand shifting shapes. Like a nightmare made flesh, Gromarth thundered onwards, the spirit of his master pulsing in his warped veins. Jhar’zadris swung the warhammer around him with abandon, lost in the glorious lust of battle. When he was done, the blood would run in rivers.
Artheris rode hard, her cloak streaming out behind her. The valley was laced with fire. Enormous braziers had been set up, most of which still burned furiously. The mingled fire and corrupted moonlight lit the scene with a bizarre blend of colours. A great rent in the earth lay at the heart of the place, choked with scree and blasted stone. In all directions, the men struggled in mortal combat. A mighty Chaos host filled the valley, and more were pouring in from the northern slopes. A small band of what looked like Imperial troops held together near to the crater and were fighting valiantly, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Even as she watched, mighty warriors of Chaos ploughed into the lines of defenders. They would not hold out for long.
Artheris knew that many of the humans in her army still doubted her. But now all would be revealed. She was ready for the test ahead. She took up her staff, feeling the raw essence of magic pulsating along its length. Bursts of brilliant silver flame burst unbidden from the crown. The air was alive with power, both dark and light. A scream of agony, unearthly and shrill, scored the heavens. Artheris knew the nature of her foe. It was as she had predicted. A Lord of Change.
The daemon towered over those around it. It was stooped like an old man, but nothing else in its appearance was remotely human. Its wings stretched high into the air, and its grotesque bird face snapped and grinned insanely. It was a vision of horror made flesh, a shimmering presence of infinite cruelty and perversion. Even to mortal eyes, it was an abomination. But her mage-born eyes saw further. She saw the dimension from which it had come reflected in its aura. Artheris knew it for what it was, a mere splinter of the infinite madness and horror which would one day engulf the world. It was change incarnate, the very essence of Chaos. Only she, with her long years of lore behind her and her subtle magical vision could see all of this. Only she, whose fate it was to drive the monster back to the realm of madness, truly knew the depths of the horror they faced.
The daemon perceived her, and its gaze was like a knife at her breast. She raised her staff high, letting the tip blaze with light.
‘Asuryan be my guide,’ she breathed.
Her robes streaming behind her, her face fixed into a mask of determination, Artheris rode to meet the Lord of Change. Now all would be put to the test.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Annika ducked to her left hastily. The heavy Chaos warrior slipped in the mud, and his blade fell wide. It slammed into the ground where she had just been, carving through the earth with ease. He toppled over towards her, fighting to regain balance.
Her heart thumping, Annika disobeyed all her instincts and leapt forward. She pressed her pistol to the side of his horned helmet, and fired. The bullet shattered the ornate shell, spraying shards of iron and steel. The warrior staggered, but did not fall. Annika, wondering what she had to do to finish him off, jumped back. Her adversary seemed impossible to kill. His cracked helmet hung from his face. The exposed flesh was terrible to witness. A red-rimmed eye glared at her with intense hatred, ringed by bizarrely coloured and warped skin. The monster within the iron shell was human, but only just. He came forward, grinning through spiked teeth.
Annika lowered the pistol once more. Her last bullet. She fired into his breastplate, cracking the heavy plate and sending the warrior lurching backwards once more. Tucking the pistol into her belt, she moved quickly to press the advantage. Sword in hand, she thrust towards the gaping hole in his armour, probing for the weak spot.
She was too slow. With a roar, the huge warrior met her blade with his own. His strength was incredible. Annika was borne down by the weight of the blow. It felt like her arm was nearly ripped off, but she somehow clung on to her weapon. Clenching her teeth, she tried to wrench her blade around. But the warrior was in complete control. With a strangled laugh of triumph, he spun her sword away into the night with a flick of his own, and knocked her to the ground with a massive mailed fist.
Annika felt the sharp taste of blood in her mouth, and her temples rang with pain. The world juddered and shifted. She tried to rise, but slipped in the mud and gore. The shape of the warrior loomed over her, dark and huge. He raised the blade for the killing blow. Annika’s vision cleared just in time to see the sword fall.
‘Sigmar!’ she breathed
A shower of sparks doused her. A second blade had intercepted the first. Her senses rushing back, she scrambled backwards to retrieve her weapon. Dieter, standing between her and the warrior, hurled the warrior’s sword upwards, crying aloud from the exertion. Not for the first time, he had saved her life.
He looked like a vision of one of the savage tribal warriors of old. His helmet had been knocked from his head, and his long blond hair flew wildly as he laboured. He was caked in blood, his own and that of his victims. Every blow with his sword was titanic. He seemed to have been infused with a strength beyond anything she had ever seen from him.
The Chaos warrior, caught off-balance, struggled to cope with Dieter’s crushing strikes, and was driven backwards. Annika raced back into the fight. As Dieter piled in with his huge swipes, Annika fell to the ground and plunged her short sword into the warrior’s calf muscle. The stab was well directed, finding a gap between the shifting plates of armour. With satisfaction, Annika felt the sharp edge cut through sinew and muscle.
The warrior roared with pain, and fell awkwardly to one side. Annika rolled away, just in time for Dieter to bring his greatsword down two-handed on the warrior’s neck. Blood as black as pitch splattered against his encrusted breastplate. The warrior flailed for a moment, then twitched, then lay still. The light in his tortured eye went out.
Annika rose to her feet and went over to Dieter. He had already withdrawn his blade and was looking for the next fight. Warriors, human and Chaotic, were struggling all around them in mortal conflict. The sky was still marred with streaks of magic. The situation had moved from being hopeless to merely desperate. The charge of the elven warriors had broken the Chaos lines momentarily, but the iron-armoured warriors had regrouped quickly. Now the entire battlefield was in confusion. Swordmasters and Imperial knights had engaged the core of the Chaos army, and the hundreds of auxiliary troops were grappling with the mass of cultists. In the night, lit only by the rampant flames and blasts of sorcery, all pretence at formation and manoeuvre had been lost.
‘Where’s the wizard?’ cried Annika over the noise.
‘Don’t know!’ yelled Dieter, launching himself at a hapless cultist. ‘Don’t care!’
Annika joined him in the assault, and their twin attack made short work of their deranged opponent.
‘That champion!’ she cried, parrying a blow from a fresh cultist in front of her. ‘He’s too strong for Heinrich’s men. We must stop him!’
Dieter looked across the melee. The huge form of the Chosen was some distance away. None could stand against him. His warhammer was flying in massive, devastating circles, slaughtering any who came near. Blood ran in rivulets down his armour and the flanks of his monstrous steed.
‘Agreed,’ said Dieter, grimly. ‘Together.’
They began to barge their way towards Jhar’zadris, swords labouring, cutting their way through the throng like harvesters in the fields. Step by grinding step, they made their way to the towering Chosen. Annika clutched the icon in her left hand, ready to use its divine power when the moment came.
Even in the heat of battle, the mass
ive warrior seemed to sense their impending arrival. While still some distance away, he turned his horned head and spied their progress. A roar of anger, or maybe pleasure, burst from his distorted lips. Spurring his mount on, he rode directly for them. With a resounding clash of armour, battle was joined.
Alexander smashed aside the heavily-armoured warrior before him. The man cartwheeled backwards, his armour rent asunder by the force of the fiery blast. His ruined body still smoking, he attempted to rise to his feet again. Alexander brought the blazing tip of his staff down heavily on his chest. The white-hot shaft sunk into the warrior’s torso. He screamed wildly, his face etched with agony as the fire purged his body of corruption.
Alexander withdrew the shaft, and whirled around, trying to get his bearings. In every direction, fresh warriors, both of Chaos and of the Empire, were grappling with each other. There were even elves in the midst of them. It was hard to tell who was doing better. On both sides, the slaughter was heavy. A cultist charged towards him. Alexander blasted him aside disdainfully. The wretched man was thrown from his feet, taking several others with him. On the far side of the space cleared by his fall, a tall figure was revealed. He wore purple robes and carried a twisted iron staff. Alexander pointed his staff-tip at him in readiness, and the sorcerer smiled coldly.
‘A human wizard,’ Malek spat, raising his staff also. ‘How amusing.’
Alexander let the Wind of Aqshy mould a new spell. A corona of flame screamed into being over him, and he charged forward. Malek raised his own staff, and lurid energy whirled around him like a nest of snakes. On every side, warriors hurriedly retreated from the explosion of magical energies. Consumed by their own battles, none were foolish enough to try and interfere with a wizards’ conflict.
Alexander flung the corona at the sorcerer. Malek raised his staff, and the magical fire exploded against a shield of dark sorcery. Shards of steaming matter flung themselves in every direction. Alexander followed up the attack with a wave of spitting firebolts. Malek was forced backwards, driven nearly to his knees by the searing heat of Alexander’s fury. Bolt after bolt of blood-red energy slammed into his shadowy shield, bursting around the perimeter in torrents of flame. Alexander smiled grimly as he worked. Truly the essence of Aqshy was strong in this place.
But Malek was a sorcerer of the druchii, born to a race whose ancient mastery of magic far exceeded the fitful efforts of mankind. Though Alexander’s skills were impressive, they were raw and wayward in comparison to the studied arts of the dark elves. Too late Alexander realised the dark shield was not just for protection. It began to push against him, sucking the force out of his attack, latching on to his limbs like a morass of heavy pitch. The wizard fed more power to the attack. The flames rose higher, coursing towards the dark elf like a pack of wild animals. And yet still the cloying, dampening sheen of darkness grew. It extended, throwing tentacles of shadow in every direction.
One caught him by the neck, and Alexander felt the dread power within it clutch at his soul. More tendrils landed, dragging him downward, crushing his fire. Malek rose to his full height. He raised his staff high, and the crushing, draining entity reared even higher.
Alexander could feel the danger. The Wind of Aqshy was blocked by the dampening substance. He was being encased, slowly muffled and crushed by the inexorably growing darkness. He tried to withdraw, to pull himself free of the soul-draining matter. But even as he flailed, the stuff clung tighter, winding itself around his struggling limbs, choking the life out of him.
Alexander felt panic rise suddenly. He had been overconfident, blinded by the apparent ease of victory. Malek looked at him scornfully.
‘So it ends, little wizard,’ he said.
The curtain of darkness rose, and Alexander saw no more.
Morgil stood loosely before the iron-clad Chaos warrior. Two of the creature’s companions lay in the mire. His axe was slick with their blood. He looked directly up at the warped visor of his opponent.
The warrior was vast. Massive gold-laced greaves enclosed his legs, while a heavy breastplate with the sigil of Tzeentch dominated his torso. Horns twisted in elaborate shapes above the dark helmet. Like most of the warriors in the Chaos army, his armour was laced with intricate designs of a strange and unsettling nature. Nothing was regular, everything was asymmetrical and off-balance. The servants of the Master of Change had adorned their battle-gear to his liking. Morgil despised the ostentation. His own garb was simple. His axe, a great heirloom of his House, was marked with only a single rune. Ceyl, the sign of law, passion, and justice. It was a fitting emblem.
The Chaos warrior strode towards him heavily, swinging an axe of his own. The double-bladed weapon was far larger than the weapons wielded by ordinary mortals, and arced through the air with a savage grace. A bunch of skulls, some still with scraps of flesh clinging to the scalps, hung from the shaft. They clattered against the steel as the warrior advanced. Morgil accepted the danger of the killing blow in order to get close. He ducked under a coruscating sweep of the axe, letting the blade graze the very top of his crouched body, before springing up directly into the warrior’s path. There would be no possibility of withdrawal. Either the blow was executed perfectly, or he would be dead.
Leaping up between the warrior’s flailing arms, Morgil thrust the axe upwards towards the helmet. With a rasp of metal against metal, the edge passed between the warrior’s helmet and breastplate. It bit deep into the flesh. The warrior roared in pain as his momentum carried him into the blow.
Feeling the axe connect, Morgil twisted it further, working the head into the neck of the enraged warrior. Desperately, vast armoured arms beat at him, trying to push him back. But the blows were frantic and poorly aimed. With a final, sickening wrench, Morgil heaved on the axe, and the warrior’s head was torn from his shoulders. Bile and gore sprayed over the White Lion, but he kept his grip on the axe. Like a toppling mountain, the mighty warrior crumpled into the mud.
Morgil spun away from the collapsing body, careful not to be dragged down with it. The horned head rolled into the mire and came to rest, while the severed neck spewed blood vigorously. The great double-bladed axe rolled harmlessly from the warrior’s lifeless grip.
More Chaos troops strode towards him menacingly. All around him human soldiers were being cut down by the immense warriors. Few could stand against them, and even the heavily-armoured Imperial knights were hard pressed. The battle was poised. The lumbering warriors of Chaos had made huge inroads into the allied army, but determined charges by the Reiksguard and Reavers had halted their advance. Now the two heavily-armoured forces were closely engaged. Swordmasters were present wherever the fighting was fiercest, spinning and dancing into the fray with deadly grace. Lesser troops on both sides conducted their own vicious feuds, dragging each other into the gore and grime of the battlefield.
As was his wont, Morgil fought alone, choosing his personal battles with care. On either side of him, human State troops rushed forward to meet the Chaos warriors. They stood no chance, but Morgil admired their bravery. Before joining them, the White Lion risked a look upwards. The daemon was wading through warriors with its strange, nightmarish gait. Its staff rang with lurid colour, and blasts of strangely-hued energies tore from the tip. It should have been capable of destroying them all. And yet, it was being contested. Some counter-force had engaged it, and prevented their complete destruction. Morgil felt a tremor of hope in his heart. Artheris. There could be no one else.
Knowing he would be no help in such a duel, Morgil came to the aid of the humans, swinging his axe freely. Bodies were everywhere, friend and foe, looming before him, clutching at his arms, crushed into the earth and covered with blood. It was a slaughter. As Morgil entered the melee, punching and swiping with his axe, the fluttering of a dark cloak suddenly caught his eye. His view was obscured by the press of warriors around him, all grappling in mortal combat. But the glimpse had been all he had needed. It was her. With a sudden lurch of excitement, Morgil spri
nted forwards. A cultist blocked his way. Morgil’s axe flashed, and the man’s arm was detached from his body. Not bothering to finish him off. Morgil cut his way through the press ahead. Kurnous had guided him well. Now all had changed. The battle around him became unimportant. Like a hunter after his quarry, Morgil ducked and weaved towards the Disciple of Khaine, his axe thirsty for more blood.
Artheris dismounted. No horse would bear her closer. The Lord of Change was waiting. An inscrutable smile was on its grotesque face. Its very presence was an affront to the order of the world, a violation of the laws of the earth.
A score of Chaos warriors charged towards her. The Swordmasters around her surged to meet them, and they clashed in a whirl of glittering steel. Artheris stood alone, untroubled by the hosts raging to get at her. The Swordmasters knew their task, and fought with a controlled fervour she had never seen before. Their shame at the debacle in Altdorf drove them onwards, and no enemy warrior got close.
Artheris planted her staff firmly on the ground, and fixed the daemon with a defiant gaze. For a moment, they regarded one another. The stare from the daemon’s distorted face radiated maleficence. If Artheris had been less mighty, just a glance from those terrible eyes would have been unendurable. Even with all her lore and skill, she felt her heart beating faster within her breast, her skin breaking out into a sweat. The depths of depravity and perversion unleashed to bring a Greater Daemon into the world were almost beyond imagination. She took a deep breath, willing her body and mind to obey her commands, to tap the vast wells of magic around her. As Artheris stood before the monster, she felt the fire within kindle. Pure magic, all eight colours combined, danced across her brow.
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