by C. L. Werner
Inhin leaned back in his sable-covered campaign chair and regarded the lithe shape of Beblieth. It was a pity such a comely form was tainted by the Temple of Khaine. She would have been so much more enjoyable as something other than a witch elf. There was a gleam in her dusky eyes as she felt him studying her. It was the slightest thing, but more than enough to sober Inhin’s fantasies. The image of a serpent slithering towards its mesmerised prey flashed through his thoughts.
The noble shifted his gaze from Beblieth to the heap of bloodied rags and dripping wounds cringing at her feet. All humans looked alike to Inhin, but he could recognise the livery of the Grey Lancers beneath all the gore.
‘This creature knows what I want?’ Inhin asked.
‘Yes, my prince,’ Beblieth answered. The witch elf knotted her hand in the prisoner’s hair, forcing his face up from the floor. The battered knight moaned in dread as she stared at him, her pink tongue licking her full lips.
‘I will not demean myself speaking a slave tongue,’ Inhin stated. His look grew sour. ‘There was been too much of that today,’ he added.
Beblieth bowed her head in understanding. A savage tug on the man’s head brought him whimpering upwards, onto his knees. ‘Tell the prince what you told me. The way I taught you.’
There was a moment of sobbing, tears rolling down the man’s slashed face. Beblieth quickly grew tired of the inarticulate babble. She dug her fingers deeper into the man’s blond hair, nails scraping into his scalp. Blood joined the tears oozing down his face.
‘Exalted lord and master of all the world! Prince of the druchii… and… and.’ Horror filled the man’s eyes as his mind tried to remember the unfamiliar titles, the musical names Beblieth had taught him with the edge of her dagger.
Beblieth sighed. ‘They are not overly clever, these brutes,’ she apologised. Looking down at her prisoner, her expression hardened. ‘Tell my prince about the asur traitor.’
A last gasp at defiance flickered over the knight’s features, but the merciless gaze of the witch elf quickly stifled it. A moan of unspeakable guilt and wretchedness wracked the captive and his body sagged in Beblieth’s grip. She pulled him upright once more, not a trace of pity for him in her eyes.
‘The… traitor… has the Spear,’ the man cried. ‘There are… are twenty… maybe thirty of us left. Too few to fight our way back to Kislev.’
‘Tell my prince what you are going to do instead,’ Beblieth commanded.
‘We… we ride to… the Bastion Stair,’ the prisoner sobbed. ‘Archmage Dolchir…’ He shrieked as the witch elf raked her nails through his scalp again. ‘The traitor is going to try to seal the portal by himself. He would see the Spear of Myrmidia destroyed rather than fall into… than to be returned to those who have rightful claim upon it from their sovereignty over all the lesser beasts of the land!’
Beblieth released her hold, allowing the wretch to collapse onto the floor.
‘You have not told any of this to Pyra or Naagan?’ Prince Inhin asked.
‘My loyalty is to you and Lord Uthorin,’ Beblieth answered.
‘The Spear must be mine alone,’ Inhin said. ‘We cannot trust them with it. Their magic puts a strange madness in their minds. Only a cold, practical use of the Spear will further Lord Uthorin’s ambitions.’
Beblieth smiled at the seated noble. ‘And your own ambitions, my king.’
An inner glow seemed to shine from Inhin’s face as he heard the witch elf address him. ‘We will speak of this again,’ he decided. He looked again at the sobbing pile of rags and meat on the floor of his tent. He waved at it with his gauntlet. ‘You may dispose of that now.’
‘Give it to the goblins,’ Beblieth said, shaking her head. ‘I begin to find the screams of humans tedious.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
It stretched as far as the eye could see, as though it might straddle the entire world. Monstrous and gigantic, the wall reared up into a fiery sky, its cyclopean mass rising like a mountain of blood and death. It was a thing of steel and brass and bone, of fang-like spikes and razor-sharp sheets of twisted bronze and pitted iron. Skulls grinned everywhere, skulls of obsidian and jet, skulls of metal and chain, the shrieking bones of humans and the grinning heads of daemons. Some stretched for what seemed miles of the wall’s impossible length, their goat-like horns contorted into the axe-blade rune of the Blood God. Others were merely a few dozen yards in size, their grinning fangs only a little bigger than a man’s leg. These skeletal gargoyles nested between the obsidian horns that jutted from the base of the wall, gleaming darkly in the hellish light of a dead sun.
Atop the wall were great totems of bronze, immense pillars that seized the sky with jagged fingers. Chains and cages swung from the towers and upon the top of each, picked out in blood-caked brass, was again repeated the skull-rune of Khorne. Carrion birds circled each totem, their croaks and caws forming a deafening cacophony. A grisly psalm to soothe the fury of a mad god.
The centre face of the wall was broken into still another representation of the Blood God’s rune. This was formed from immense sheets of blackened steel, each a dozen yards across that had been hammered into the eerie crimson granite that supported them. The gigantic symbol was itself broken at the centre, split by a series of megalithic steps, steps that seemed to flow like molten lava down the face of the titanic wall. They shimmered and steamed, but never did they abandon the substance of their shape. Each was a rectangular plateau, half a mile wide and nearly as tall. Even the biggest giant to ever stalk the Wastes could not have lifted his foot from one step to another. Smaller creatures were less than insects before such enormity.
Daemon faces leered from the front of each step and a great balustrade of spiked, skeletal towers flanked each side of the stair. At its very top, bound within a set of curled bronze horns the size of small hills, was a fiery glow. It was not light that made the head of the stair glow, but the raw hate of existence itself, the murderous bloodlust of the most primitive beast and the cultured hate of the most learned mind, all mixing into a knot of unadulterated carnage as the emotion was sucked into the spectral world beyond the mortal plane.
Beblieth could feel the malignancy pressing down on her, trying to crush her soul into the scarlet snow, trying to grind her body into so much paste against the scab-hued sky smouldering in the heavens. She felt every act of cruelty and malice shrieking at her from the pits of memory, condemning her as soft and weak, a thing of mortal limits. The witch elf steeled herself, whispering the catechisms of Khaine, trying to draw strength from her god. The effort only made the unseen malignancy laugh in its million hissing voices.
Snikkit clutched at his ears, screwed shut his eyes, and wiggled his way into the centre of the biggest bunch of Gorgut’s orcs he could find. The shaman moaned and gibbered, foam dribbling from his mouth, snot falling from his nose. He could feel his heart trembling beneath his ribs, trying to burst itself with sheer terror. This, the shaman knew, was a place of magic such as he could scarcely begin to comprehend. It was not the magic of sorcery and witchcraft, but magic enslaved into iron and steel, bound within bone and brass. It was magic distilled and tortured into a single purpose, recast into a single awful form. This was the magic of hate.
Naagan clutched his side and stumbled, his dagger sliding through his bared skin, carving letters into his bleeding flesh. The disciple averted his eyes from the wall, where something looked back at him. He could feel the hunger of the thing, could hear its tongue licking its monstrous jaws, smell its corpse-breath, sense the growl of its belly as a rumble in the ground. Meat. For all of his magic, for all of his intrigue and power and status, for all the debts owed to him and the alliances he shared, all he was to the thing on the wall was so much meat. And the thing on the wall, he knew, was the wall.
Zagbob crawled on his belly through the snow, trying to force the spear from his claws. Again and again came the impulse to stab the blade into his belly, to watch the sticky green blood spurt from his own body
, to paint obscene words on his face with the last drops of his life, to surrender his soul and let something else into his flesh. The squig hunter had finally fallen to the ground in an attempt to deny the weird thoughts. His squigs hopped and slobbered around him, sometimes snapping at him as he squirmed in the snow, oblivious to the mortal horror of their master.
Pyra pulled her cloak tighter around her, for once allowing her enticing curves to vanish within heavy folds of wolf-fur and sealskin. The sorceress could feel something pawing at her, groping that part of her that was beyond flesh and bone. Her soul bruised under the sadistic touch, cringing like a small child when it sees the whip. The ugly growl of the thing shuddered through her spirit and she knew it was angry, that it had tasted that part of her that had opened itself to the dark arts. The thing’s anger gave her hope, and some of the arrogance she had felt when first exposed to the mighty forces of the north flickered to life inside her. But it quickly faded. Even magic swollen by the forces of the north winds were nothing beside the raw, primordial power of the thing. It slobbered and snuffled, continuing its spectral violation, chewing at her soul like a dog with a new bone.
Gorgut breathed deep, staring up at the gigantic wall, at the snarling daemon faces, at the flocks of vultures and the numberless legion of skulls. The smell of rotten meat, rancid blood and rusting steel washed down inside his body. The black orc grunted and turned his head to Dregruk.
‘So this is the Bastion Stair?’ Gorgut growled, nodding his head. ‘Looks like a good place for a scrap!’
By degrees, the others gradually broke free from the spell of terror that had beset them. Few had succumbed to the daemonic force, mostly goblins that had expired through sheer fright. The survivors were already looting their former comrades, conspiring to carry as much of the plunder on the corpses as they could manage. Several orcs were trying to break up the confused mass of squabbling goblins, while others began to lope off towards the Bastion Stair, finding courage rather than terror in the malignity exuding from the structure. As their warlord had said, anything that angry would make for a good fight once they tracked it down.
The dark elves watched the greenskins, making no move to join them. Their sophisticated minds understood better than the orcs what had just happened and the enormous power it implied. They understood now the nature of the place they had thought to storm and seize.
Pyra was the first to recover her wits. The sorceress was dripping with sweat, her cloak clinging to her body in a wet mess. She cast its weight aside, smoothing the black robes beneath. She looked at the fear and doubt on the faces of the other druchii, an infection that had claimed even Naagan. She saw them looking away from the wall, as though not seeing it would blot it from their memory. The expedition teetered at the edge of disaster. The terror evoked by the wall had settled into their brains in a way it never could with brutes like the orcs. Now it threatened to consume them.
‘My prince,’ Pyra hissed, striding to Inhin’s side. She was weak from her ordeal, leaning on her staff like a wizened crone. Inhin turned eyes that were wide with fear towards her, the face around them was almost colourless from fright.
‘All for nothing,’ the noble whimpered. ‘I will die in there, killed by something without name or title. My bones will be unburied, my death unwritten! I, the greatest prince of all Naggaroth will leave nothing after me. Even my enemies will forget I ever existed!’
Pyra’s hand cracked hard against Inhin’s cheek. The slap brought outrage flooding into the noble’s face. Inhin pressed a hand to his reddened face. He glared at the sorceress, noting her weakness. Inhin’s gauntlet came smacking across her beautiful countenance, knocking her down into the snow. Blood streamed from Pyra’s broken lip.
‘You dare touch me! You snivelling harlot,’ Inhin raged. He pointed an armoured finger at the prone sorceress. ‘I know your kind, like all you courtesans, sniffing around my power like a bitch in heat!’
‘My prince,’ Pyra gasped through her bleeding lip. ‘The warriors are afraid. You must rally them or all is lost!’
Inhin’s rage flickered, a shiver of fear dancing down his spine. He glanced at the Bastion Stair and shuddered. ‘No,’ he snarled. ‘We’re not going in there! It’s death to go in there. Death, and things worse than death!’ He stabbed his finger down at Pyra. ‘You go in there. It’s your plan. You do it!’
Pyra scowled at the noble. ‘You would give me your warriors?’
The prince shook his head in disbelief. ‘Of course not!’ he shouted. ‘Take your animals with you. They seem eager enough!’ Inhin’s face darkened. ‘But that’s it, isn’t it? You want me separated from my loyal warriors. This was never about the Spear or the barbarians, was it? This was all about killing me!’ Inhin drew his sword, glaring down at the staggered sorceress.
‘Which of them was it, whore? Uthorin? Or maybe that insane maggot we call a king?’
‘My prince!’ Pyra pleaded. ‘What I told you is the truth. With the Spear we can bring Tchar’zanek to his knees, and with the Raven Host at your command, all of your enemies will be destroyed!’
Inhin pressed his sword to Pyra’s throat. ‘What good does that do me if I’m dead?’ he hissed.
Pyra braced herself for the killing blow. She stared in disbelief as Inhin calmly sheathed his sword. The prince turned, staring with some amusement at something behind her. Faintly, Pyra could hear the soft sound of footsteps in the snow.
‘Beblieth,’ the prince chuckled as he addressed the approaching witch elf. ‘How timely. I was going to finish this traitor myself, but I think you will be so much more adept at it than I.’
Beblieth smiled down at Pyra, her gloved hand running through the thick locks of her hair. Slowly the witch elf drew one of the barbed daggers from her belt.
So fast did she move that Inhin only understood what was happening when he found himself face-down on the ground, struggling to draw breath into his quivering body.
Beblieth wiped the noble’s blood from her poisoned blade with Inhin’s cloak, then bent down to help Pyra from the ground. The sorceress stared coldly into Inhin’s gaping eyes.
‘I am told the poison of the waruli is slow to kill,’ she hissed. ‘It numbs the body into a trance-like state. The victim slips into a dreaming slumber from which he never awakens.’ Pyra shook her head, a teasing gleam in her expression. ‘If that is so, my prince, I wish you only unpleasant dreams.’
The two elves turned away from the dying noble and made their way back to the druchii soldiers. Inhin had been useful only so long as he could rally his warriors to Pyra’s needs. Unwilling to go further, his usefulness was at an end. He had feared an ignoble death, to be lost and forgotten. Now, as Pyra led the remaining dark elves towards the Bastion Stair, the corpse of the noble sat alone in the scarlet snow, to rot lost and forgotten beneath the molten sky.
It was a thought that warmed Pyra’s heart and cheered her spirits.
From the rocks, Kormak watched as the motley alliance of orcs and dark elves marched towards the Bastion Stair. The marauder felt a hot knife of hate blaze through his heart as he saw the pale shape of the witch elf gliding between the armoured ranks of her kinfolk. The Norscan could almost imagine himself leaping down, charging through the grim ranks of elves and monsters, cutting his way to certain destruction if only he could wring the neck of the sadistic killer. He had fought many battles and all manner of foes over his bloody life, but never had he been toyed with the way he had at the hands of the witch elf. It was a shame that continued to chafe at his warrior pride. The only wergild that would satisfy him was the death rattle rising from her throat as he choked the life from her.
Urbaal’s steel hand closed about Kormak’s shoulder, tightening, pulling him back behind the jumbled heap of stone. ‘Be still, marauder. I know you lust for revenge. First we accomplish our quest. Then there will be time enough for a reckoning.’
Kormak struggled to free himself of the Chosen’s clutch. ‘I will not be cheated by the da
emons of the Stair,’ he snarled. ‘The witch is mine!’
Urbaal swung the Norscan around. ‘None can defy the will of the gods. If it is your fate to kill the elf, then not all of the Blood God’s daemons can cheat you. If it is not, then all of your anger will not change her doom.’
There was still rage on Kormak’s face, but Urbaal could tell that he had made an impression with his words. The blood-mad impulse had passed, the marauder would not throw himself into some reckless bid for revenge. He would wait now, bide his time and watch for a better opportunity.
‘They will reach the Stair before us,’ Tolkku said, his voice sour. The zealot sneered at Jodis Wolfscar. ‘Perhaps we would have fared better without a guide.’
‘Let them gain the Stair first,’ Urbaal said. ‘They will attract the attention of the Bloodherd, leaving us free to act as we will.’
Vakaan nodded, pointing down at the dark elves. ‘They still follow the southlings,’ the magus said. ‘That means they have not captured the Spear. We cannot waste time fighting the druchii and the orcs they have joined with. While the southlings have the Spear, they pose a greater danger.’
‘How so?’ wondered Jodis, staring intently into the stern features of Vakaan.
‘Consecrated to weak southling gods, the Spear might be used to seal the Portal of Rage and stem the flow of Chaos, reducing the winds to nothing more consequential than a breeze. The sorcerers of the Raven Host would lose their power and the daemons bound into the service of Tchar’zanek will be unable to retain a form of shape and substance but instead will fade back into the realm of the gods.’
‘And if the Spear were re-consecrated to the Raven God?’ asked Tolkku, a greedy light in his eyes.
The membranes slid closed over Vakaan’s eyes as the magus thought about the possibility. ‘If the Spear were consecrated to Tzeentch, it could be used to tear wide the gate between worlds. From the Portal of Rage would pour the might of Chaos, not the miserly trickle that is enough to empower the psychotic slaves of the Blood God, but a great flood that would magnify the sorcery of the Raven Host, allow us to summon entire hosts of daemons from the void and bind them to our will. The Spear could challenge the great Skull Lord Var’Ithrok and steal from him the imprisoned spirit of Kakra the Timeless, greatest of the Raven God’s Lords of Change.’
