by C. L. Werner
‘What will we do?’ Kormak asked of Urbaal as they stalked past a heap of butchered things that had once been Empire soldiers.
‘What we must do,’ the Chosen answered, his enigmatic words ringing through the skull-face of his helm.
‘Find the Bastion Stair and secure it for the Raven Host,’ Tolkku said.
Urbaal stopped and stared at the Kurgan zealot. ‘Is your magic enough to make the land show us the Bastion Stair? We serve the Raven God. That pits us against the other Great Powers.’ Urbaal shook his steel head. ‘No, knitter-of-wounds, it will take sorcery greater than yours to trick the Wastes. Already the land moves against us. First it brings the southlanders to us, then the slinking elf-folk. It would keep us from learning what has become of Jodis Wolfscar and from finding the Blood God’s throne.’
‘Then how can we do what Tchar’zanek has commanded?’ Kormak wondered, his blood chilled by this talk of vindictive landscapes and the malignity of Dark Gods.
‘We find Vakaan Daemontongue,’ Urbaal told him.
Find the magus they did. He crouched upon the highest rise atop the collapsed rubble of his mountain. The sorcerer’s robes were torn, his helm dented and singed. Sap-like ichor dribbled from gashes in his face and hands. The monkey-like foetus crawled and gibbered from its perch upon his shoulder. The breaking of his magic had nearly broken Vakaan with it. For the first time since leaving the Inevitable City, the feet of the magus rested upon solid ground.
The daemon steed of the magus hovered above him, the fanged maw set into its underside snapping and slavering as it tried to rend the flesh from the sorcerer’s bones. A flickering haze of orange light burned between magus and monster, keeping the vengeful nightmare at bay. Vakaan’s hands wove in desperate gestures, trying to maintain the barrier.
Kormak cursed when he saw the disc trying to devour its master. He drew the Hung pony-axe, then willed his mutant arm into a long blade of thorny bone. His braced himself for the gruelling dash over broken ground that would end pitting himself against a daemon fiend.
Vakaan saw the start of the marauder’s sprint. The sorcerer’s eyes were wide with despair. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘I am bound into it as it is bound to me. Slay the daemon and you kill me with it.’
Kormak stayed himself, his mutant arm oozing back into a semblance of normality. Urbaal slowly removed his own hand from the hilt of the sword sheathed at his side.
‘What would you have me do, magus?’ the Chosen demanded. ‘I yet have need of your powers and would not abandon you to the revenge of a daemon.’
The slavering disc surged forwards, exploiting Vakaan’s distraction, nearly breaking through the weakened barrier. The monkey-familiar gave a bark of fright, its malformed paws weaving before it in perfect unison with Vakaan’s sorcerous gestures.
‘You must seize the disc, hold it fast while I repair the binding runes the elf witch scarred with her magic!’ Vakaan gave a wail of despair as the disc’s fangs shot forward of its body on a stalk-like appendage, its teeth tearing at the spectral haze. ‘By the Changer, there is no other way!’
Urbaal nodded and snarled a command to Kormak. The marauder stuffed the Hung axe back under his belt and joined the Chosen, climbing up the rocks to where Vakaan struggled against his rebellious steed. Reluctantly, Tolkku followed after them, chanting for protection from daemons as he invoked his own magic to oppose the frenzied disc.
Urbaal came behind the slavering disc and seized it in his iron grip, armoured gauntlets steaming as they clutched the daemon. Kormak hesitated, feeling the evil aura of the thing, fearing the searing pain touching it promised to inflict. He ground his fangs together and set aside his fear. Grabbing the disc was like trying to hold lightning – there was no substance to it, only burning pain. His hands slipped through the unreal shadow of its essence, fingers vanishing under the rainbow lights of its skin. He felt his hold slipping, sliding through a puddle of stinging cobwebs. The wrongness of the thing offended his body more than the pain. A primal terror rippled through him, begging him to free it of his clutch. Little feathery growths, like weird fungus, began to creep up his arm. Free me, the parasites called to him.
The feel of something solid under his fingers was almost like a physical blow to Kormak. Desperately, he focused upon the sensation, using it to anchor his straying thoughts to things real and tangible. He found that his hands had slipped through the daemon’s substance to close around the band of bronze that circled it. The metal felt red hot beneath his touch. Compared to the stinging crawl of but a moment before, it was a soothing release to him.
Slowly, the three northmen pulled the daemon back, wresting it away from the barrier Vakaan had woven from his magic. The disc shivered and struggled to be free of them, desperate to slaughter the man whose soul tied it to the mortal world. Thorns and talons sprouted from its sides, slashing and tearing at the men who held it. None of its captors relented, understanding only too well that if they let the daemon slip free now, it would not be content with only the blood of the magus upon its teeth.
Vakaan gradually came to his feet. He glared at the errant daemon and removed a thin strip of bronze from his tattered robes. The magus wove his hands in a complicated pattern above the metal. His mouth expanded, bones shifting and reforming to accommodate the macabre intonations of his spell. They were not words of Norscan or Kurgan, but the speech of the Dark Tongue, the voice of Chaos itself. Kormak felt blood trickle from his ears as he heard it. The monkey-thing on Vakaan’s shoulder started to shriek, though whether in exultation or terror it was impossible to decide.
The disc shuddered, its efforts to break free growing even more desperate. Kormak could feel ice forming beneath his skin, could sense his lungs filling with arctic mists. That part of him he knew was his soul quivered and railed, its sharp definitions collapsing in a crust of spectral slime. It was not death the disc threatened him with, but annihilation, the complete eradication of flesh and spirit. The temptation to surrender to it goaded Kormak. He could see the same thought on the tattooed face of Tolkku, wondered if it also lurked in the eyes of Urbaal.
None of them relented however. Whatever hell the daemon threatened them with, it could only be a sweet release from the wrath of Tzeentch if they allowed their fear to upset the Changer’s schemes. Instead of releasing the disc, the three men tightened their holds upon it, trying to close their minds to its rage.
An instant, and then the malevolence of the disc was gone. The daemon’s struggles subsided and it became quiet once more, less creature than thing now. Briefly, Kormak could see fresh patches of metal glowing upon the bronze band that circled it, welding together its scarred magic. Vakaan’s hands were empty when he glanced at the magus, though otherwise the sorcerer had not seemed to move. How the bronze had flowed from magus to daemon was a riddle Kormak decided he did not want to know.
The men released their weird captive, breathing easier once their arms were free of the stinging nothingness that formed it. Vakaan strode towards the now truculent disc. He gestured and the thing dropped down, hovering only a few inches from the rocks. The magus stepped onto its back and it rose once more, levitating ten feet above the jagged stones. Vakaan was bound to the earth no more.
‘Your daemon is returned to you, magus,’ Urbaal said. ‘You owe your life to me.’
‘What is life without power, Chosen of Tzeentch?’ Vakaan asked. A green membrane snapped closed over his eyes as he considered his own question. ‘The elves have worked their havoc quite thoroughly,’ he stated when he opened his eyes again. ‘Only the four of us are left of your entire warband, great Urbaal.’
‘They will pay for their interference,’ the Chosen promised, clenching his fist.
‘We may make better use of them than revenge,’ Vakaan said. ‘The sorceress who broke my spell could not hide from me the purpose behind her magic. It was too great a spell to keep her thoughts from weaving themselves into its eldritch energies. They call themselves druchii and name themselves
the enemies of our enemies. They seek the Bastion Stair and the relic borne by the southlanders.’
‘Then they will fail,’ Urbaal growled.
Vakaan shook his head and gestured to the oozing plain of clay beyond the jumbled heap of stones. ‘The other gods stand against what we would do,’ he warned. ‘This land bears the stain of Nurgle the Poxfather, a quagmire to drag us down yet firm enough to give speed to the hooves of southland steeds! No, there are powers that defy the glory of Tchar’zanek and would not see the Raven Host triumphant even against the weaklings of the Empire.
‘But the ways of the Changer are crafty,’ Vakaan continued. ‘If the other gods stand against us, perhaps there are others who are too insignificant to draw their notice, others who can find the Bastion Stair without their interference.’
‘You say that the elf-folk can succeed where we cannot?’ Tolkku’s voice was hollow with refusal to believe what he was hearing.
‘Only in small things,’ Vakaan explained. ‘Tzeentch will allow heathen Khaine only such glory as will lend itself to his ultimate triumph. The elves will find the Bastion Stair. We will find the elves.’ The magus pointed at Kormak, at the sticky blood that coated his armour. ‘There is power in blood, power that engorges Savage Khorne. Blood calls out to itself. ‘Tell me, did any of the elf-folk escape your axe?’
Red rage burned in Kormak’s eyes as he answered. ‘One,’ he growled, remembering the sensuous curves of the witch elf’s body as she drove her poisoned daggers into his flesh. ‘When next our paths cross, she will not be so lucky.’
Vakaan waved aside the marauder’s wrath. His feathered fingers drew a pouch of coppery weeds from his belt. ‘If she lives, the blood she has lost will seek to find her. With the help of my sorcery, it will succeed despite the treachery of the Wastes.’
The magus’s eyes narrowed with amusement as he saw the feral rage smouldering in Kormak’s gaze. ‘Be content, Norscan. Soon you will have your chance for revenge.’
Gorgut’s craggy brow knitted with concentration as the shrill wail echoed in his ears. The black orc scratched his leathery scalp, trying to make sense of the sound. After a few moments, he decided it was just noise, not words. He lifted his powerful arm, ready to cuff Snikkit on the ear. A look at the grim little shaman however, made the warlord reconsider. Instead he punched Dregruk in the face, knocking the orc onto his arse.
‘Stop blockin’ the light,’ Gorgut snapped at his lieutenant.
Dregruk blinked at him stupidly, then glanced around at the burning village around them. Carefully the orc rose to his feet and shifted well out of the warlord’s way.
Gorgut watched him for a minute, then was distracted by a pack of his greenskin warriors playing a crude game of ball with the hairy head of a Kurgan. One of the orcs let up a huge whoop of triumph as he caught the severed head. An instant later he was smashed down under a huge pile of punching, biting orcs. Gorgut slapped his face when he noted that the warrior’s own team-mates were the first to tackle him. Thick as two short dwarfs, most of his mob would have a hard time outwitting their own dung.
Another shrill wail made Gorgut look away from the chaotic rumpus. He glowered at Snikkit, then at the fat old woman tied to the wattle fence. He threw a rock at a pair of goblins slinking along the back of the fence, scattering the sneaks. Interrogating prisoners was serious business! Not to be interrupted by bloodthirsty cowards trying to shove splinters of wood under the captive’s toenails!
‘How come the humie cow doesn’t talk so I can understand?’ Gorgut demanded. Whether his words were directed at the prisoner or at Snikkit seemed a bit dubious, but finally the shaman decided to answer.
‘You see, boss, these humies up north don’t like the ones down south,’ Snikkit explained. ‘So they come up with their own way of talkin’ so’s the ones down south can’t understand.’
‘But I ain’t one of them south humies,’ Gorgut growled. ‘How come I can’t understand these ones?’
Snikkit blinked his eyes, a nervous smile wrinkling his face. ‘Because you can understand the humies down south, boss. These humies don’t talk like that.’
‘Well, tell ’em to start talkin’ so I can understand ’em,’ Gorgut snarled back. He shook his fist under the woman’s nose, the entire paw bigger around than her whole head. ‘You better start tellin’ me what I want to know!’ he threatened.
The Kurgan shrieked again. Gorgut rolled his eyes and threw his hands up.
‘See! What’s that supposed to mean?’ the black orc snapped. ‘Is that even words?’
The shaman shook his hooded head and leaned on his staff. ‘You can’t scare ’em like that, boss.’ Snikkit drew an ugly-looking dagger from the folds of his robe, fingering the rusty edge with his thumb. The shaman’s leathery skin made a rasping noise as it slide across the metal, like a razor hissing along a strop. The woman’s face went pale as the goblin leaned towards her. ‘This is how you ask ’em stuff,’ he giggled.
A stream of sounds bubbled from the Kurgan’s mouth. Gorgut’s brow knotted together in concentration. Some of it might be words, he decided. In his eagerness, he grabbed Snikkit’s scrawny arm and pulled the shaman back.
‘What’d the humie say?’ the black orc demanded. ‘She tell you where this lot is hidin’ their magic?’
Snikkit shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, boss. I don’t speak humie.’ The goblin turned back around to finish questioning the woman.
Gorgut started to lift his axe, murder in his beady eyes. He sucked at his fangs as he realised he couldn’t chop up the shaman into little pieces and feed them to Zagbob’s squigs. The weird little fungus-freak was the only magician he had. Lose him and there wasn’t anything like a good chance of getting another one. Besides, Mork and Gork didn’t like it when their shamans got killed, no matter how annoying they were.
Instead, the black orc tried to count to ten in his mind and backed away. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do because he wasn’t sure if seven came before or after three. Before that dilemma was solved, he turned around and boxed Dregruk’s ear.
‘You said this village looked like a good one,’ Gorgut snapped. Dregruk was grabbing his ear in pain. The opening was too good to let pass, so Gorgut punched him in the other ear for good measure.
‘It wasn’t me, boss!’ Dregruk protested. ‘Zagbob found the place and said it looked good!’
‘You lettin’ a grot do your thinkin’ for you now?’ Gorgut snarled.
Dregruk blinked at him, carefully letting one of his paws drop away from his ear. ‘What’d you say, boss?’
‘Don’t make me hurt you, you stupid git,’ Gorgut growled. Dregruk flinched as the black orc raised his fist again. ‘I said where is that squig-fondlin’ twerp at?’
The two orcs stared at each other for a moment, then turned to watch as a small knot of goblins came slinking past. The scrawny little sneaks gripped heavy earthen mugs in their hands, a pungent amber-liquid that smelled like cattle urine slopping from the jugs with each step. A motley assortment of casks, furs, salted meats, scraps of armour and dried fish hung from their belts or was draped over their backs. Many of the goblins sported oversized weapons that looked suspiciously like the ones the Kurgans had been carrying when Gorgut and his orcs attacked the village.
Gorgut’s red eyes blazed as he saw the lone goblin the mob was carrying on their shoulders. Even with his face hidden beneath a horned Kurgan helm ten sizes too big for him, the stink of squig sweat rising from his hide armour was impossible to mistake. Gorgut bulled his way through the goblin looters, scattering them like sheep. The looters carrying Zagbob unceremoniously dropped their hero and scrambled for safety. Gorgut grabbed the scout by the horn of his new helm and started to lift him into the air. The goblin squealed, falling out of the bottom of the oversized armour. Gorgut stared angrily at the now empty helm, then tossed it aside.
‘Where’s my magic stuff?’ Gorgut snarled, glaring down at the squig hunter.
‘Didn’
t they have any?’ Zagbob asked, his face trying to look innocent. ‘Didn’t Snikkit find some for you?’
Zagbob shrieked like a stuck pig as Gorgut reached down and grabbed him. This time the warboss had a firm hold on the goblin’s neck. ‘That weedy runt is too busy playin’ with his knives,’ Gorgut growled. ‘So why don’t you tell me where all this humie magic is!’
The scout sputtered, fighting to keep the choking pressure off. ‘Honest boss, they had so much nice stuff, I thought for sure some of it was magic!’ The goblin’s eyes narrowed with thought. ‘You sure some of it ain’t?’
‘Anything worth havin’ they would have used on us,’ Dregruk snarled at the goblin.
Gorgut spun around. Dregruk covered his ears and ducked, but his leader only looked at him with sullen realisation. The black orc let Zagbob slip through his fingers and fall back to the ground.
‘You lot!’ he roared at the orcs playing with the severed head. ‘Knock that off and pack it up. We’re movin’ out!’ His face lifted in a snarl as he heard another scream sound from the direction of the fence. ‘Somebody tell Snikkit to cut it out! There ain’t no magic here!’
The black orc glared at the smouldering village around him. It was the first settlement the warband had encountered since crossing the Troll Country, a small cluster of hide huts and wattle fences. There had been perhaps twenty or thirty warriors among the inhabitants, hardly enough to put up a decent scrap for a mob the size that Gorgut had gathered. The rest of the humans had been too little or too old to be any good in a fight – the kind of humans only a goblin would waste time with. Gorgut wrinkled his nose as the stink of smoke and burning flesh assailed his nostrils. At least there had been a lot of horses. Nagdnuf knew ways of cooking horse that made the black orc’s mouth water just thinking about it.
‘You, smart git,’ Gorgut snarled at Dregruk. ‘Make sure Nagdnuf packs plenty of horsemeat. Tell him if it ain’t enough, he’s got another leg to make up the difference.’
