by C. L. Werner
He did not see the lone marauder crash into the two Kurgans with the graceless fury of an avalanche. He did not see one Kurgan head leap from its neck, chopped clean through by the Norscan’s axe as neatly as a flower from its stem. Blood drenched the face of the second Kurgan, blinding him. As he staggered back, Kormak rammed his blade-like arm through the warrior’s chest, ripping through lungs and heart as it burrowed up beneath his ribs. The warrior struggled to make a dying attack against his killer. Kormak’s axe easily swatted aside the cruelly flanged mace the Kurgan held, then the marauder slammed his horned head into the man’s face, mashing his features into a morass of blood and gristle.
Kormak threw aside the mangled Kurgan and glowered at the robed sorcerer. Bellowing ferociously, he rushed the magician, determined to still the alien command thundering inside his mind. A look of absolute horror crept into Odvaha’s eyes. The sorcerer was gripped with a moment of indecision, wrestling with which danger to confront. A wail of ghastly jubilation echoed above the battlefield as he reluctantly loosed the daemons from their bindings and spun to confront Kormak.
It was too little and much too late. Kormak’s mutated arm came scything down, crunching into the sorcerer’s shoulder. Odvaha’s arm dropped from its socket, only a greasy rope of tendon holding it against his side. The pain-wracked sorcerer sent a blast of rippling red light slamming into Kormak, hurling the marauder from his feet and sending him sprawling on the ground.
Kormak spat blood from his mouth, coughing with disgust as he saw Odvaha turn and flee. The marauder painfully rose to his feet, feeling broken ribs grind together. Disgust turned to grim laughter as he saw the sorcerer come racing back, his escaped daemons bounding after him. Whatever magic the sorcerer still commanded he sent burning into his monstrous adversaries, trying to blast them back into the spectral world of gods and ghosts. Kormak tightened the hold on his axe, then crooked his arm back. With one mighty effort, he sent the heavy broadaxe spinning through the air, across the dozen yards between marauder and sorcerer. The brutal blade slammed into Odvaha’s back, crunching home in a spray of gore. The sorcerer’s body folded around the butchering steel, flopping prone upon the ground.
A haze of shimmering violet winked into life between the fallen sorcerer and his daemons. The monstrous things hissed and raged at the magical obstruction, but made no effort to cross the barrier. Slowly, still growling their fury, the daemons became indistinct, shadowy. A moment later, and only their foul smell lingered to remind the world of their intrusion.
Vakaan hovered above the fallen Odvaha upon his daemonic disc. The magus waved his hand and the haze he had summoned vanished. He stared down at the crippled sorcerer, pointing at him with a merciless finger. Not for the daemons would be the honour of vanquishing the traitor.
In response to Vakaan’s command, the mangled bulk of the Chaos spawn came lumbering over the battlefield. The bear-like abomination seethed and churned with vile growths but somewhere within its mutated mind, beneath the animalistic mindlessness of madness, it recognised the man whose magic had reduced it to such a vile state.
Kormak felt his gorge rise as he saw the loathsome spawn exact its revenge. Odvaha would have fared better being left to his spiteful daemons.
The marauder turned from the gruesome spectacle, then slumped to his knees. Black-hued blood bubbled from his mouth; fire seemed to grip his heart. As crimson dots danced before his eyes, Kormak’s last thought was how vile it was to die another man’s slave.
The standing circle was a ring of towering megaliths rising from the ice and snow of the mountain. Runes, strange even to Pyra’s eyes, were inscribed upon them, marks of a race old even when the first elves walked the shores of Ulthuan. Who the mysterious builders had been was unknown even to the most learned elves. There were whispers of primordial Old Ones, legends of god-defying giants and myths of the terrifying shaggoths. Whatever had reared the towering stones, their work had endured the savage and not always natural elements of Norsca for aeons. Pyra could feel the magic bound into them, seething with power.
‘You are certain this will work?’ Prince Inhin demanded as his warriors began to warily approach the circle of megaliths. Cautious, the noble was letting his vassals examine the sinister ring of gigantic stones before deigning to near them himself.
Pyra gave her lover a look of condescending indulgence she knew he found infuriating. ‘That is the purpose for which they were raised,’ she told him, hiding her own doubts that there might be other powers within the stones that had not yet been discovered. ‘The ancients who built these circles were tapping into the ley lines, the magical veins that wrap around the world. By setting each circle upon the lines, they were able to travel instantly from one to another. So long as they knew the right incantation.’
‘And you know the incantation?’ Inhin shook his head. ‘How much did that little secret cost you, I wonder.’ He glanced at the armoured shadow of Sardiss and sneered into the Black Guard’s metal mask. ‘You are a woman who doesn’t overly care what the price may be once you see something you want.’
‘I might inquire as to your own limits, my prince,’ Pyra rejoined. She smiled as she watched Inhin’s shades probing every snowbank and bush with paranoid efficiency. ‘If I did not already know them quite intimately.’ A sardonic curl of her lip accompanied the sorceress’s words. ‘But perhaps you are more arduous in other arenas.’ She gestured a slim hand at the scowling figure of Naagan. ‘What did you promise the Hag Queen to gain the loan of Naagan and his bitch?’
Inhin rounded on Pyra, clenching his fist before her face. ‘You push me too far, woman. One word from me and you’ll be wearing chains when I send you back to Naggarond!’
The noble’s eyes widened with alarm as he felt razored steel press against his throat. With amazing speed, Sardiss had covered the ground separating the two elves and now had his dagger against the prince’s neck. Inhin cast a desperate look at the standing stones where he had sent his retinue. He started to open his mouth to call for aid, but felt the Black Guard’s knife prick his skin the moment he tried.
‘Do not play your noble airs with me, Inhin,’ Pyra’s voice hissed at him, low and filled with menace. ‘We are partners, you and I, and don’t think to forget it. I intend to profit from this expedition, not sit idly by and accept whatever scraps you toss me.’ She gently stroked Inhin’s bloody neck, tugging the knife away from his throat. ‘One word from me, and you will not get back to Naggarond at all. I suggest you remember that, my prince.’ There was something lascivious about the way she caressed the armoured arm of Sardiss as she pulled the Black Guard away from Inhin.
The humiliated noble glared at both of them.
‘I will tell Lord Uthorin of this,’ he snarled.
‘By all means, my prince,’ Pyra laughed. ‘Tell Uthorin. Let us see how well he favours you when he hears how loyally you have been serving his interest.’ The sorceress looked past the fuming noble, pointing at the standing circle. ‘Run after your men, my prince. I think they have decided the circle is safe enough to receive your eminent presence.’
With a snarl, Inhin turned and stalked away.
‘You should not press him too far,’ Naagan warned. The disciple had been leaning against one of the megaliths, close enough to observe the exchange. ‘He is a dangerous enemy to make.’
‘He is a preening ass in need of gutting,’ Sardiss growled.
Pyra patted the Black Guard’s pauldron. ‘When the time comes, my love, he will be all yours. For now, he is still useful to me.’ She arched an eyebrow as she looked at Naagan. ‘The question is, how useful are you?’
Naagan genuflected, extending his hands to either side of his body. ‘I am only a humble vessel of Khaine’s will. I am useful to whoever serves the Bloody-Handed God best.’ Somehow, Pyra could not shake a feeling of mockery in the disciple’s eyes as he spoke to her.
‘You grow diplomatic without your murderous whore skulking after you,’ the sorceress said. Her
thin smile was malicious and petty. ‘A pity she could not rejoin us in time. Perhaps she will make some Norscan animal a good wife.’
The pallid shape of Beblieth stepped from behind the stone Naagan had been leaning upon. The witch elf’s body was coated in blood, her unkempt hair wild with clotted gore. Pyra could tell at a glance that none of it was her own. The witch elf extended her hand, tossing something that rolled across the snow before sliding against Pyra’s boot. The agonised face of an elven corsair stared blindly from the severed head.
‘You would have made better time without the litter, my lady,’ Beblieth sketched the slightest of bows. ‘But there is no harm. After I did what you asked, I came here and waited for you to catch up.’ The witch elf bowed again, then turned and marched off into the ring of megaliths. Naagan formed a more respectful farewell, then followed after her.
‘Say the word and I snap that harlot’s neck,’ Sardiss snarled.
‘No,’ Pyra hissed at him. ‘When that time comes, I want to see the last drop of life drain out of her eyes before I send her soul snivelling to her precious Khaine!
‘Come.’ the sorceress said. ‘Let me work my magic upon the circle before that weak-kneed schemer Inhin calls everything off.’
‘The way I see it, you lot got two choices.’ Gorgut was reasonably sure he had the right number of fingers held up. If he didn’t, he was certain none of the goblins cowering before him was cheeky enough to correct him. After sacking Kastern’s tower, Gorgut’s mob had turned north, following the wizard’s dying words. There was magic to be found, a dying human never lied because… Well, they just didn’t.
The warband’s losses attacking the wizard’s tower had been considerable. Fortunately, Zagbob had found sign of a small goblin settlement in some caves after they had crossed into the Kislevite oblast. Gorgut didn’t like goblins from this far north, they tended to be even weedier and more cowardly than the ones in the south. Sure, they claimed it was because any goblin that stood his ground and tried to fight the human horse soldiers ended up spitted on a spear, but Gorgut had no patience for that kind of cringing philosophy. Certainly an orc would never lower himself to eking out a life as some slinking ground rat! The fact that there were no orcs among the oblast tribe was proof of that.
Still, even if the craven grot-fondlers weren’t worth spit in a fight, they would be useful in other ways. Green mutton, if it came to it. That was why Gorgut had Nagdnuf helping him choose which of the gits they had captured were going with them. He was trusting his cook’s eye for spotting goblins that would taste better than his missing leg.
‘You maggots can join up with Gorgut Foechewer,’ the black orc bellowed. ‘Or you can stay here with your old warboss.’ The orc lifted his other hand, displaying the mangled head of the tribe’s chieftain. He had managed to push two of his thick fingers up the stump of the goblin’s neck and used them to make the jaw flop open and closed.
‘Stay with the git that couldn’t even guard his own cave,’ Gorgut hissed in a reedy voice he was convinced didn’t sound at all like his normal guttural roar. ‘That’s the bestest idea of them all!’
The morbid puppet show swayed any goblins in the crowd that might have been considering slinking off the moment the warlord’s back was turned. It wasn’t a question of breaking their loyalty to their old warboss, goblins didn’t have an ounce of loyalty for anything that couldn’t threaten, beat or whip them into obedience. What Gorgut did need was to make them too afraid of him to run off.
‘Make sure to pick out the fat ones,’ Gorgut snarled into Nagdnuf’s ear. ‘Give the rest of them knives. We’ll take on the winners and salt the losers.’ The goblin cook giggled and rubbed his hands together as he hurried to comply with his warlord’s orders.
‘What about the shaman?’ Dregruk asked, lumbering up to Gorgut as the black orc stalked from the cavern where they had herded the other prisoners.
Gorgut drew a deep breath, stifling the belch brewing in his gut. ‘Time I had a talking to that runty little sneak.’ The black orc was careful to keep any trace of intimidation out of his voice. He didn’t expect Dregruk to be observant enough to notice, but he was too smart to admit even so slight a sign of weakness around another orc. Truth be told, the shaman was why they had attacked the goblin tribe in the first place. Zagbob had scouted out the caves with his squigs before the rest of the warband was even within sniffing distance of it. He had reported the presence of a shaman among the goblins. That fact had decided Gorgut’s mind about attacking the subterranean lair.
Of all the losses suffered at the wizard’s tower, Gorgut was feeling the absence of Oddgit even more than Pondsucker. As reassuring as a big smelly troll was, Gorgut felt a lot safer with a shaman’s weird powers at his beck and call. Besides, he needed a shaman to tell him when he found the magic loot he was looking for! A goblin wasn’t a substitute for an orc, but Gorgut didn’t have much of a choice. If he did run across a proper orc shaman, he’d have Dregruk bash this one over the head. Until then, he’d need the ugly little grot.
The shaman was tied to a little chair made of bone and sinew sitting in the centre of a smelly cave that looked like either a latrine or a fungus farm, possibly equal parts of both. He was a thin, reedy goblin wearing a patchy leather cloak and a thick hood studded with sharp bones and a line of pig tusks sewn along its crown. A motley arrangement of dried fungus and shrivelled birds hung from little tethers woven into his clothes. Gorgut couldn’t see much of the shaman’s face beneath his hood, but what he could see was all dark and crinkly, like rotten fruit, with a big ugly eye painted across his chin.
Zagbob stood a few feet from the tied shaman, an arrow at the ready. One of the scout’s ghastly squigs, a filthy, flatulent thing with oozing sores and oversized fangs, hopped around the captive, nipping at his dangling feet.
‘You killed my favourite squig,’ Zagbob was saying as Gorgut entered the chamber. ‘I’m gonna make you pay for that, shroom-face!’ The scout let an arrow fly, the feathers on the shaft whistling past the shaman’s sharp nose. The arrow slammed against the wall of the cave, shivering as it stuck into the packed earth. A dozen other arrows already peppered the wall.
Gorgut cuffed Zagbob, sprawling the scout on the floor. ‘Fool around with one of the others, I need to talk to this one.’ The scout scowled, but carefully withdrew, hiding in the shadows against the wall.
‘If you’re gonna stick around, get where the boss can see you,’ growled Dregruk, shoving Zagbob across the room. The goblin glared daggers at the massive orc, but knew enough to do as he was told. The farting squig loped after the chastened hunter, hopping at his heels as he carefully pried arrows from the wall.
‘Any good reason why I shouldn’t let Zagbob have you?’ Gorgut asked, crouching low to speak to the tied shaman.
‘The curse of Mork will smash your skull,’ the shaman threatened. ‘The rage of Gork will grind your bones!’
‘I saw some of that when we were fighting,’ Gorgut said. ‘Your magic popped some of the lads’ heads like they was pimples. Pretty impressive stuff. You even slagged Zagbob’s horned squig. Never did like that nasty bugger anyway.’ The warlord patted his belly. ‘Thing didn’t even taste so good.’
‘I’ll taste worse,’ the shaman threatened.
Gorgut laughed at the threat, slapping Dregruk until he joined in. ‘Eat you? No, that wasn’t what I was thinking, at all!’
‘Nagdnuf don’t know no recipe for shaman,’ Dregruk elaborated, then crumpled as Gorgut drove his elbow into the orc’s breadbasket.
‘We come here looking for you,’ Gorgut hurried to explain. ‘I want a shaman for my warband, and I want the best one I can find. That’s why we come here, to find you. Even down in the Badlands they’ve heard of… of–’
‘Snikkit Sharpteeth,’ the shaman said sourly.
‘Yeah, Snikkit, the bestest shaman in the whole north,’ Gorgut said. He didn’t like the incredulous look in the shaman’s eyes. The black orc clenched his fi
st and grabbed hold of the chair, lifting both it and the goblin off the ground.
‘Look, you dung-licking twit!’ Gorgut growled. ‘I’m givin’ you the same choice I give the rest of your tribe. You follow me as your new warboss or I’m gonna pick my teeth with your bones, recipe or no recipe!’
There was raw terror in the shaman’s eyes now. His head seemed like it would snap off his neck such was the enthusiasm with which he nodded his agreement. ‘You got yourself a shaman, boss! Best shaman in the whole north, yessir! Won’t be no cause for regret with Snikkit looking out for you and keeping you right with the gods!’
Gorgut set the chair back down, grinning a toothy smile at his new shaman. ‘Cut him loose, Dregruk,’ he told his lieutenant. The hulking orc shuffled forward and with a few deft turns of his thick paws broke the leather thongs binding Snikkit.
The shaman stood, rubbing his bruised limbs where the ties had chafed his skin. He patted his cloak, ensuring that the contents of its hidden pockets were still safe. Zagbob’s smelly squig came bounding over, snapping at the freed shaman. With a flick of his claw, Snikkit cast a greasy white powder into the squig’s face. The monster stumbled back, stunned and sneezing. With each sneeze, the squig’s body began to swell. By the fourth sneeze, the body burst like an over-ripe melon, splattering the squig’s innards across the room.
‘Oi! That was my favourite squig!’ Zagbob roared, nocking a fresh arrow to his bow. Gorgut reached down and cuffed the scout.
‘None of that you sneaking little sneak!’ the black orc snarled. ‘Show some respect for Mork and Gork and your new shaman!’
Snikkit turned, fixing Zagbob with his gleaming yellow eyes. The goblin’s face pulled back in a fanged smile. ‘Listen to the boss, or your new shaman’s gonna turn you into a squig!’
