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

by Chris Wraight

  Morrslieb had risen higher. The armies continued to fight at close quarters, locked in their deadly embrace. No decisive advantage had emerged for either side. The companies of Reiksguard and Swordmasters had contained most of the Chaos warriors in the valley, though they had been unable to break the heavily-armoured formations. Cultists and marauders swept in waves against the hastily-organised lines of Imperial and asur soldiers. Though men on both sides fell in droves, there were yet more to take their place. The narrow valley was choked with the stench of death. With the eventual arrival of the Imperial artillery on the south ridge, cannon fire had begun to crack across the battlefield, though the melee was so confused and brutal that no precision could be attempted with the shot. It was a bitter, close-set struggle for mastery, and the hatred and desperation was equal on both sides.

  Fresh from his last kill, Morgil risked a brief glance into the heavens. The Lord of Change was swathed in a protective shield of distorted light and reflection. Beyond him, a fierce flame burned in the sky. The archmage had ascended into her true state. For a moment, Morgil allowed himself to recall her on the prow of the Asuryan’s Might, her hair lifting in the breeze. She had looked so slender then, so insubstantial. And yet now she was fighting with the living essence of Chaos. None could hope to aid her. All their lives depended on her efforts. He uttered a whispered prayer on her behalf.

  The White Lion turned his attention to the battle around him. His hands and axe were stained with blood, and yet no wound marked his pale skin. The Disciple was close. He had lost her earlier after a troupe of cultists had foolishly waylaid him. Now the sheer number of deaths had thinned the scores of bodies all around. If she knew he was looking for her, she wouldn’t hide. The Disciples had a warped creed of their own, one which he might have respected if any sinew in his body didn’t hate them so much.

  And then, as if ordained by a higher power, Morgil saw her at last. She was locked in combat with an Imperial knight. Despite his broadsword and heavy armour, the human was suffering. She danced around him like a spectre, toying with him, provoking the rash blows that exposed him to counter-attack. Morgil observed for a few moments, watching the way she fought, checking for any sign of fatigue. There was none. She was perfect, a complete harmony of mind and body. He took a deep breath. So the moment had come at last. He hefted his axe lightly, and sprinted towards her.

  The Disciple launched into a series of blistering strokes, driving the knight back. The killing blow rose. Morgil pushed the knight aside roughly, sending the man skidding into the ground. The knight tried to clamber to he feet, but his armour and many wounds prevented him.

  ‘Go!’ Morgil hissed at him, his eyes fixed on the Disciple.

  The knight, wounded and exhausted, needed no second invitation. He crawled from the scene, his breathing choked and heavy. All around him, the human lines were breaking. The Chaos warriors piled forward, driving the Imperial forces back towards the temple. Morgil, uncaring that he was being left behind by the tide of war, stood calmly before the object of his long quest. Kalia likewise made no effort to join her allies. Before long, the fighting had moved some distance away, and Morgil and the dark elf were left virtually alone.

  Kalia looked at him with interest.

  ‘We’ve met before,’ she said.

  Morgil brought his axe into position. The weight of it felt perfectly balanced with his body. Even after hours of fighting, he felt no fatigue. The goal for which he had striven was now at hand.

  ‘You fight well,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’ll have to again.’

  He sprang towards her, his axe flashing in front of him. Kalia didn’t shrink from the move, but pounced forward herself, daggers glittering. The two bodies slammed into one another, blades locked, before springing away once more. They entered a strange, complex dance, each looking for the rare opening, the one chance to strike.

  Morgil was the stronger, slashing his blade with heavy, powerful strokes. Kalia was marginally quicker, shrinking from lethal strokes like a shadow before rearing like a snake to strike on the counter-thrust. In all other respects they were perfectly matched. Graceful, deadly, and utterly self-absorbed. There were few on the field who could have come close to their martial perfection.

  Morgil pressed forward, fuelled by his anger. His axe had become, as it always did, an extension of his arm. He swung the blade low, aiming at Kalia’s legs. At the last moment, he pulled the head upwards, striking at her torso. The feint was foreseen. Kalia sprung to her left, slipping her left foot out of the way at the last moment. The axe blade grazed her tunic as she melted away from the second thrust.

  Her counterattack was subtle. A dagger flew at Morgil at eye-level. Carried forward by the momentum of the axe-swing, he ducked under the stabbing move. The second dagger was waiting below, primed to plunge into his arm as he turned. Twisting acrobatically, he curved his body away from the danger. He let his right boot flick out as he did so, aiming to catch Kalia off-balance. She was too good. The kick missed, and she replied with a fresh flurry of dagger strokes. The axe rose once more, and dark metal clashed with bright ithilmar. Sparks flew into the fevered air, lighting their faces with savage light.

  Kalia’s knife-work increased in ferocity. Behind her steely facade, a flicker of anger burned. Morgil responded in kind. They recognised each other for what they were now. Just as in Altdorf, it became difficult to tell them apart. Though she was clad in darkness and he in light, they blended together. Their movements were so fast, so perfectly-judged, they seemed strangely interdependent. Though one was asur, one druchii, they were like two sides of the same killing blade, both driven by an ancient hatred, both powered by the commanding lust for vengeance.

  Kalia feinted right, covering her flank with one dagger while stabbing the second towards Morgil’s face. The White Lion shifted weight, blocked the high blade and kicked out towards the low. The daggers shifted course at the last moment. Morgil knocked the lower one from her fingers with his boot. It flew into the air, glittering like starlight. But the other had been cunningly directed. Kalia plunged it downwards, avoiding the rising axe-blade and aiming for Morgil’s chest.

  Morgil adjusted the axe in mid-move, warding the danger. But the move was anticipated. With an artful twist, she locked the blade under the head of the axe and wrenched upwards. With surprising strength, she prised the axe from the White Lion’s hands, and it slipped from his grip.

  The axe tumbled in the air. Flashing a feral smile, Kalia leapt at him, her dagger aimed at his throat. Desperately, Morgil grabbed her wrist with his right hand, stopping the blade less than an inch from his neck. They came together like lovers, locked in a deadly embrace. The Disciple pushed the dagger on. The White Lion held it firm. Their eyes met, just as they had before.

  ‘So you die,’ she hissed.

  Morgil glared back at her defiantly.

  ‘Look down,’ he said.

  As soon as the word left his lips, she knew what had happened. The loss of the axe had been a desperate gamble. Her own dagger, the one which had been kicked away, was in his left hand. He had buried it into her flank, and the blood began to pump. The realisation dawned on her, and she struggled furiously against his lethal hold. Even wounded, she was strong. Morgil kept her close, twisting the dagger into her ribs, keeping the second blade from his own neck. Gradually, he felt her strength begin to subside.

  ‘You think you’ve won,’ she said spitefully, blood rising in her mouth. Their faces were close.

  ‘You are dying, Disciple,’ said Morgil. The fire of his bloodlust was ebbing. He felt her grip on the dagger weaken. ‘That is all that matters.’

  Kalia went limp in his arms. The savage light in her eyes began to shift out of focus.

  ‘And will you feel so proud when you return home to find your land on fire?’ she said, gasping for breath. Even in death, a sarcastic smile played across her lips. ‘You’re fools, all of you. Even now, your doom lies across the seas. The land you abandoned. All
for nothing!’

  She gave a bitter, choking laugh, and then slumped. Morgil pushed her roughly away, withdrawing the dagger roughly. Kalia crumpled, her side pumping blood, her whole body twitching in a paroxysm of death. She seemed to shiver, her eyes fluttered weakly, and then she fell still.

  Morgil looked down at her bloodstained body for a moment. His heartbeat gradually returned to normal.

  He felt his fatigue, so long postponed, begin to creep up his limbs. Wearily, he retrieved his axe from its resting place. He took it up once more. Now the deed had been done, he felt nothing but emptiness. His place was back in the fighting. He swung the blade loosely, and prepared to follow the path the Chaos warriors had taken. But with the death of the Disciple, all satisfaction in the fight had left him. All that was left was duty, to keep going until the archmage’s duel was decided.

  And yet, a seed of terrible doubt had entered his mind. As Morgil ran once more into the heart of the battle, his axe flying with deadly speed, he could only see the laughing face of the Disciple, her mouth dripping with blood, her eyes alive with malicious pleasure. Was what she had said true?

  Dieter was at the end of his huge strength. His blond hair hung lank around his head. Two huge rents in his bronze-inlaid armour exposed his flesh, and he was streaked with blood. A lesser man would have given up hours ago. But still he pressed on, driving himself into the fray through sheer force of will.

  Annika raised the icon in her hand. It blazed with a searing light, hot against her palm. Ahead of her, the gigantic Chosen warrior lumbered forward. His foul steed lay on its flanks some distance away. Since engaging the monster, the only thing they had achieved was the death of that grim mockery of a horse. In every other respect, they were doing very badly. Bodies lay on the ground in piles, seeping blood. The men around them roused themselves wearily for the final charge, though their limbs were heavy and spirits faltering. The Chosen’s retinue remained intact, locked in combat with the surviving Imperial forces. Only she and Dieter had been able to occupy the Chosen for more than a few moments, and even they were being soundly beaten.

  Annika forced herself to face her enemy. The Chosen’s armour was a horror all of itself. With bewildering speed, its many surfaces warped and changed before her eyes. At times it glowed with an eerie blue light, at others it sunk into sable and seemed to merge with the night around. On every panel and plate, a hideous face screamed abuse and vitriol. Even where the Chosen had been wounded, the armour seemed to remain fused to the skin. It was as if the man and the metal had become one, a living shell of iron-hard terror.

  Dieter ran at full tilt into the advancing Chosen. For a big man, he looked utterly dwarfed by the mighty warrior of Chaos. His broadsword swung in a vicious circle, looking to slice deep into the Chosen’s greaves. With a roar of contempt, Jhar’zadris swung his warhammer like a pendulum. It connected heavily with Dieter’s broadsword, shivering the metal and knocking the knight to his knees.

  Annika leapt forward, holding the icon aloft, directing its holy light towards the warrior.

  ‘By Sigmar!’ she cried, her voice breaking, directing her last ounce of faith towards the creature in an effort to drain its overbearing power.

  With a snarl of hatred, Jhar’zadris extended his left hand towards Annika. The gauntlet made a crushing movement. Annika immediately felt the grip of malign force over the icon. It began to melt in her hand, burning the flesh. She let slip a tortured scream. The icon’s flame guttered, and the silver began to disintegrate. She fed it more power, willing the burning faith in her soul to rekindle the icon’s power. But it was no good. The malice of the Chosen was infinite. With a cry of pain, she hurled the molten device away. Her hand smoked from the heat, the flesh cauterised and peeling.

  ‘Your faith in the boy-god is exposed,’ crowed the Chosen, brandishing the warhammer menacingly. ‘When will you learn to worship a power worthy of the name?’

  He swung the hammer through the air, aiming for Annika’s head. A blast of fire shot from behind her, knocking the weapon from his grasp. Annika looked around with a sudden, wild hope.

  Alexander stood beside her, his staff flaming. He looked terrible, and his skin was marked with streaks of dark stains. But he still stood defiantly. In a shaky voice, he summoned fresh power. Bolts of flame streaked towards the Chosen, knocking him backwards.

  Jhar’zadris bellowed with frustration, driven from his prey by the hail of magic. Staggering from the impact, he somehow retrieved his warhammer and came forward once more.

  Dieter limped over to Annika and Alexander. He lifted his sword a final time, though it looked like he could barely raise it. Annika took her short sword in her left hand, letting her burned and mangled palm dangle uselessly by her side. Alexander kept the bolts of fire coming, but they were beginning to diminish in power and number. The knights around them were being driven back by the huge Chaos warriors. The end would surely come soon.

  The trio stood together, waiting for the inevitable advance. Jhar’zadris, flames streaming harmlessly from his armour, began to lumber into a run. The warhammer swung. Annika took a deep breath. This would be their last stand.

  Then a clap of awesome power resounded across the battlefield. The sky lit from horizon to horizon with sudden light. All warriors, from the mightiest to the weakest, paused in the struggle to gaze into the heavens. A roaring wind swept across them. The duel of the mages had been completed.

  Artheris screamed towards the Lord of Change, the air tearing past her as she plummeted. Her spear shone with the fire of Asuryan, clear and pure as diamonds. Her golden robes, wreathed with the crackling energy of her last spell, blazed with a powerful illumination of their own. Lost in her own titanic spells, she had become a living dimension of magic, her elvenhood drowned in a surging tide of mystical power.

  The Lord of Change rose to the challenge, its staff streaming with corrupted light. It rose from the earth to meet her, its vast wings flapping lazily. Its beak opened wide, and a stream of hate and bile assailed her. The winds of magic were whipped up into a tempest, whirling and roaring with an elemental might.

  The two forces came together, and colours exploded in all directions. Artheris plunged the spear towards the daemon’s heart. The Lord of Change blocked it with its staff, and sent rainbows of sapphire and emerald spinning towards her. She smashed them with the spear, replacing its warped spectrum with blinding white illumination. Wherever it raised up corruption, she smote it. Wherever she sent forth her power, it thwarted it. They circled around each other, unleashing wave after wave of magic.

  Artheris’s hate grew with every blow of the spear. She knew the danger. Soon she would lose herself entirely. Even as her anger lent her strength, it sapped her soul like warpstone. She was becoming a creature of madness, a force of nature, locked into a magical state from which there could be no escape.

  She cried spells aloud, no longer recognising her words. If she was ordained to die, her soul was content. The only goal was the destruction of the creature before her.

  But the Lord of Change was strong, as strong as the bones of the world. It screamed its defiance, marshalling the vast forces of sorcery with a dreadful potency. Purple-tinged gales pushed Artheris back. Livid orange streaks whipped across her face. Wailing amethyst spectres dragged her down, biting at her neck and shoulders. It was as if the realm of Chaos had been dragged into reality. They fought both within the world of mortals and in the boiling domain of magic.

  Artheris beat its attacks off furiously, swinging the shining spear with abandon. Points of light like diamonds showered from its tip, swarming at the daemon with deadly intent. They burst into life when they touched its sorcerous hide, cracking the scales and leaking a painful blaze of blinding light.

  The Lord of Change lurched downwards, plagued by the biting, burning beads of magic. It took its staff in both hands and barked a single spell. A sheet of amber flame covered its entire body, immolating it in a wall of Chaotic fire. The diamonds diss
olved, falling to earth as smoking embers.

  The daemon directed the fire at Artheris. The amber energy swept towards her, tearing through the air, leaving a trail of thick poisonous smoke behind. She was engulfed, saturated in flame, covered in suffocating, choking fire. At last, she began to feel her powers ebb. She fought back desperately, fighting off the streaks of fire and magic, heedless of the lashing pain coursing through her body. The spear-tip flashed, slicing through the clouds of dark sorcery, rending it into tattered curtains of malign force.

  At last, the flames were banished. With a howl of effort, feeling her self begin to slip away, Artheris flung the last of the clinging tongues of amber fire to earth. She raised her spear with effort. Its blade still shone with a vivid glow, but its blazing light had been dimmed.

  Triumphantly, the Lord of Change rose up to confront her. Its own staff roared with sorcery, a cacophony of warped and mutating colours. It stretched its arms towards her, the fingers of its left hand clutching at her. Artheris beat it off, swiping desperately with the spear.

  Her efforts were futile. Sensing victory, the Lord of Change dragged her into a bizarre embrace. It folded its arms around her struggling body, enclosing her in a cocoon of nauseating, draining magic. The spear fell to the earth, slipping from her exhausted hands.

  Artheris felt her awareness begin to slip away. Dark magic crept beneath her wards of protection. A deadly weariness assailed her. The gleaming eyes of the daemon filled her vision. The beak opened with a smile of malice. The stench was overpowering, and her remaining vision blurred.

  Broken, exhausted, Artheris resisted only weakly. The daemon folded her gently to its breast. She dimly felt her self begin to drain into its. With a final lurch of regret, her fragile awareness saw her soul wrenched from her body and pass into the feathered chest of the Lord of Change. Then she knew no more, and her body plunged downwards, drifting in the wind like ashes from a fire.

  Morgil felt a sudden sense of loss. He looked up into the sky. With horror, he saw the Lord of Change hanging alone in the heavens. There was no sign of Artheris. The daemon let out a howl of triumph, and its vast wings stretched out over the battlefield. Its staff shimmered with vivid colour, and its flesh crawled with ever-changing hues. It was magnificent, terrible, awesome.