WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 03(R)-Forged by Chaos

by C. L. Werner

  Even in the maze of bronze halls with their piles of skulls and morbid trophies, the rank smell of the cages was nauseating. It was the stink of waste and unwashed humanity, the reek of death and despair. The stench was not helped by the butchered beastmen strewn along the corridor between the cages, entrails strewn about the floor. One look at the carnage was enough to tell Urbaal it was the work of orcs, who chop at an enemy until it was too badly mauled to defend itself. Once it reached that state, living or dead, it was no longer of any interest to them. There were signs that the goblins tagging along with the bigger greenskins had happily finished off the wounded their hulking cousins left behind.

  ‘This is recent,’ Kormak said as he inspected the still dripping intestines of a four-legged beastman. ‘Maybe an hour. Probably less.’

  Urbaal nodded, kicking the head of a mutilated ungor from his path. He looked over the butchery. Heaped against one wall, its flesh slowly cooking, was the slumped corpse of an orc. There were a few scrawny goblins lying scattered about the carnage, but overall it looked like the orcs had killed with impunity. The Bloodherd, it seemed, had met their equals in savagery.

  Pyra walked to the Chosen’s side, a pair of her warriors flanking her. The sorceress seemed to read the turn of his thoughts. ‘Even if they aren’t weakened, we cannot allow them to run free,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Urbaal disagreed. ‘We seek the Spear, not your unruly orcs.’ He gestured at the corpse-strewn corridor. ‘This Gorgut must still have a few score warriors to have wreaked this kind of havoc against the beastkin. I see little evidence that his numbers have been thinned. I will tell you the same thing I have told my own warriors – this is about capturing the artefact, not revenge.’

  The elf’s lips twisted in a look of disgust. ‘Gorgut is looking for it too,’ she said. ‘We can’t leave that monster at our back.’

  Urbaal laughed. ‘The orcs will stop to fight everything they see. The Bastion Stair will finish them long before they can menace our quest.’

  Pyra shook her head. ‘Do not underestimate this monster’s cunning,’ she warned. ‘I have already made that mistake once.’

  The exchange was interrupted by a pained howl from one of the cages. The dark elf warriors were inspecting them, jabbing their spears between the bars, trying to see if anything was still alive. They gave amused chuckles when they heard one of the filth-caked bodies groan as they stabbed it. The elves lifted their spears for another thrust, wagering amongst themselves which would be the one to finish the captive.

  Before they could strike, the spears were torn from their hands by a shimmering blast of blue fog. The weapons clattered against the floor, the warriors cursed, grabbing their stinging hands. Vakaan, his eyes still glowing from his spell, hovered close beside the cage, his staff held defensively across his body.

  ‘This man is a warrior of the Raven Host,’ the magus hissed. ‘Touch him again at your peril.’

  The scolded dark elves glared at Vakaan, but none of them was prepared to challenge his magic. They picked up their spears and skulked away, finding other cages to investigate.

  Vakaan gestured with his fingers and a smouldering orange glow began to illuminate the steel cage. It was a cruel thing, too narrow to allow a captive to sit and too short to allow him to stand. A lone prisoner would have been cramped in its confines. The Bloodherd had crushed three people into the ugly cage. The magus could see that all of the men bore the slash-marks of Wolfscar’s command. Two of them were dead and had been for some time. The third clung to life, but only barely.

  ‘Kormak,’ the magus called out. ‘Your assistance please.’

  The marauder walked over to the cage, quickly understanding Vakaan’s intention. He seized the blood-crusted bars in his hands. The rusted metal shuddered in his grip. As he persisted, they began to bend. Finally they snapped with an ugly shriek, flakes of red rust flying in every direction. Kormak caught the prisoner as he tumbled out of the opening.

  The captive was a sorry sight, the mangled shadow of a once formidable warrior. Kormak judged that he was an Aesling by the cast of his features and the stubble of blond hair clinging to his scalp. Under the torture and deprivation of the beastmen, he had withered into a scarred scarecrow. Hands that might once have held axe and shield were gone, only crusted stumps remaining. As Kormak set the captive gently on the floor, he could see the rot of infection seeping from the untreated wounds.

  ‘The man needs healing,’ Kormak said, staring at Tolkku.

  The zealot merely shrugged and smiled. ‘I do not waste my magic on the dead.’

  Kormak felt his blood boil at the Kurgan’s dismissive words. Whoever the man had been, he had been a warrior of the Raven Host. He had been mutilated fighting the enemies of Tchar’zanek. If there was anything they could do for him, then it was their obligation. Only the lowest Hung woman-snatcher would leave a comrade in such a sorry state.

  ‘He may know things that would be useful to us,’ Pyra observed. The elf’s words had as much effect on Tolkku as those of the marauder.

  ‘Nurse him yourself, then,’ the Kurgan grinned. He leered suggestively at the sorceress. ‘Even a dying man might like that.’

  Pyra glared at the insulting zealot, then turned towards her own healer. ‘Naagan,’ she said, ‘tending the wounded human seems to be beyond this man’s feeble powers. Would you see to him?’

  The disciple of Khaine bowed his head. Removing several phials from his belt, the priest strode over to the fallen man. Kormak bristled at the elf’s approach, ready for any treachery. Naagan made a placating gesture, trying to reassure the marauder.

  ‘My mistress wishes your man healed,’ Naagan told Kormak. ‘I am not so bloodthirsty or so foolish as to defy Lady Pyra.’

  Kormak backed away, still keeping a ready hand on his axe and watching Naagan for the first false move. The disciple bent over the lying warrior, lifting his head and pressing one of the phials to his lips. The prisoner thrashed against the stinging liquid. His eyes fluttered open and he struggled to push Naagan away, his gory stumps slapping uselessly against the elf’s chest.

  ‘He will live,’ Naagan pronounced as he stood. ‘At least long enough to tell us what we want to know.’ He fingered his knife, looking expectantly at Pyra. The sorceress gave a slight shake of her head. Naagan sighed and turned away, leaving the wounded warrior to Kormak and Vakaan.

  ‘Who are you?’ the magus asked.

  The prisoner struggled to focus on the voice he heard, reassured by the familiar sound of human speech. A broken smile tried to form as he saw Vakaan’s feathered robes and tall helm, but particularly when he saw the daemon disc upon which the magus hovered. He knew only the sorcerers of Tzeentch could master such steeds. Strangers or not, at least now he knew they served the same god.

  ‘They call me Valr,’ the prisoner coughed. He stared with renewed horror at the stumps of his hands. ‘I was warleader of Jodis Wolfscar’s huscarls.’

  Whatever he might next have said, Valr’s words were lost beneath the excited jabber of the dark elves. Beblieth led the warriors back to their sorceress, a bloodstained tabard in the witch elf’s clutch. It was the surcoat of a Grey Lancer.

  ‘The southlings were here,’ Urbaal said, taking the torn cloth from her.

  ‘That means Dolchir and the Spear might be here as well,’ Pyra exclaimed. She started to snap commands in her own language to the other dark elves.

  Valr coughed, laughter croaking from his dry throat. ‘They were here,’ he said. ‘The Bloodherd found their flesh a rare delicacy.’ He pointed at the surcoat, a gesture made hideous by the lack of hands. ‘If you find more than that, then the Raven God is smiling on you indeed. The beastmen devoured them all.’ Valr shook his head. ‘All except the elf,’ he corrected himself. ‘They gave the elf as tribute to Lord Slaurith.’

  ‘Slaurith?’ Urbaal growled. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Who is this Lord Slaurith?’ Pyra demanded.

  ‘One of the Blood God’
s champions, marked by Khorne. A Chosen like Urbaal,’ Vakaan explained.

  ‘He is a southling,’ Urbaal spat. ‘A traitor and murderer. He led an army into the north long ago to destroy the Bastion Stair. He failed. He fell to the Blood God and became Lord Slaurith.’

  ‘He is not dead,’ insisted Valr. ‘I heard the beasts call his name. He is master of the Second Step, warlord of the Skulltakers. Even Thar’Ignan bows to him.’

  ‘Then Lord Slaurith has Dolchir,’ Pyra stated. ‘That means he must have the Spear as well.’

  Valr shook his head. ‘No. Thar’Ignan kept the Spear for himself. Even the minotaur could sense the magic in the thing. The Bloodherd have been taking captives to him for hours.’ He pressed his stumps against his ears, trying to block out the sound the memory evoked. ‘Finn was the last of my men. I saw them take him away. I saw Thar’Ignan pierce his body with the Spear. It was glowing in the darkness, glowing like a thing on fire. Finn screamed and screamed, Tchar how he screamed. But he wouldn’t die. Thar’Ignan lifted him off the ground, his body sliding down the Spear, and still he wouldn’t die!’

  Kormak tightened his fingers about his axe. ‘This Thar’Ignan must die!’ the marauder snarled. Death in battle was one thing, but to die tortured and mutilated by beasts was a fate that could not be left unavenged.

  ‘The beast will die,’ Urbaal said. He looked aside at Pyra. ‘If the beast has the Spear, I doubt that he will part with it willingly.’

  The sorceress nodded. ‘Then we are agreed. We will hunt down Thar’Ignan.’

  Vakaan listened to the exchange, then turned towards Valr. ‘You say the beasts ate the southlings? You are certain that none of them were killed upon the Spear?’

  ‘Is that important?’ Pyra asked, suspicion in her voice.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the magus shrugged.

  Valr’s brow knitted in concentration. Eventually he shook his head. ‘No, the beastmen were too greedy to eat their flesh. They did not spare any for sacrifice.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Vakaan mused. He turned his disc so that he faced Urbaal once more. ‘We must hurry and strike while the Bloodherd is dealing with the orcs.’

  Urbaal walked over to Valr, lifting him onto his feet, supporting his maimed body. ‘You can lead us to Thar’Ignan?’

  The wounded warrior shook his head. ‘The beasts have taken my hands. I would be useless to you and only hold you back. But I will tell you how to find the minotaur’s lair. Kill Thar’Ignan and I can enter the halls of my fathers with pride.’

  ‘It seems we are not the first to find the beast,’ Tolkku said. It was a needless observation. All through the blood-soaked labyrinth of the Bloodherd they had passed scenes of butchery and slaughter. The orcs had rampaged through the halls, emptying the corridors of all life. There had been greenskins among the dead, but far too few according to the elves to account for Gorgut’s entire warband.

  Now they could see the orcs themselves. The brutes had pursued their enemies as far as they could, into the lair of their savage chieftain, Thar’Ignan the minotaur. The beastlord’s stronghold was a great cavern, its nearest side sharing the bronze walls and stone floors of the rest of the labyrinth. The far side of the chamber, however, was a great crater gouged out of the living earth, pitted and torn as though by the fist of a titan. Upon a ledge rising from the raw wall of the crater stood a great monolith of black basalt, its face clawed into the grisly skull-rune. The herdstone of the Bloodherd, the monolith glowed evilly in the darkness, highlighting the butchered bodies and piled skulls strewn about its base.

  All about the cavern corpses were strewn. The dead of the Raven Host were now carrion for Thar’Ignan’s hounds. Dozens of the ghastly dogs howled and slavered throughout the chamber. They were huge, evil things, their bodies twisted and malformed. Spines protruded from their backs, scaly triple-tails sprouted from their haunches. The faces of some were withered into skeletal visages, those of others were bloated like a toad. Each sported a muzzle filled with dripping fangs, each had long sharp claws upon its paws. Corrupted by the touch of Chaos, the hounds, along with their brutal keepers, had fallen into the service of Khorne. Most of the dogs leaped and clawed at the orc and goblin invaders, while some, too ravenous to worry about their master’s enemies, continued to worry the rotting corpses of his victims.

  The orcs were thickest where the fighting was most fierce. A pair of huge beastmen, their bodies draped in ragged armour swung giant glaives as the orcs struggled to bring them down. Between them, an even bigger beast loomed, a monstrous thing with crimson fur and the horned head of a bull. The minotaur wore cruelly spiked shoulder pads and bracers, a huge bronze icon of Khorne straddling its belly, a kilt of mail dangling about its flanks. Thar’Ignan held a massive war-axe in his paw, its saw-toothed blade longer than a man’s leg. In his other hand, a squirming one-legged goblin impaled upon its tip, was the glowing Spear of Myrmidia. The minotaur bellowed and roared as he swung the weapons, slashing through his attackers as though they were so much wheat.

  One of Thar’Ignan’s enemies was not such easy prey. Roaring his own fury at the towering beastlord, the black-skinned Gorgut caught the hurtling length of the minotaur’s axe upon his own. Beast and orc strained against one another, primitive savage against raw brutality. The orc roared again, pushing the minotaur back, breaking his hold.

  ‘The one fighting the minotaur is Gorgut,’ Pyra told Urbaal. ‘We need to kill him first.’

  ‘First we need the Spear,’ Urbaal corrected her. The Chosen began to sprint into the chamber. He had only gone a few steps before he found himself attacked by a pair of the monstrous hounds. Urbaal dropped into a crouch, slashing the legs out from underneath the first hound. The beast yelped, sliding along the flagstones on its stumps as its momentum carried it away. The second hound leapt for the Chosen’s throat. Urbaal smashed the pommel of his sword into its head, cracking its skull. He kicked the dying beast from his path, and rushed towards the embattled minotaur.

  ‘After him!’ Pyra shouted to her warriors, then dove aside as a bolt of lightning came crackling towards her.

  Dark elves and barbarians scattered as more tendrils of sizzling lightning blasted into the floor. They turned their faces towards the corridor they had just left. Lumbering down the passage was an enormous beast, easily the size of a full-grown ice-bear. Its lower body was that of some giant reptile, four clawed legs tearing into the flagstones with each step, a spiny tail lashing angrily behind it. A man-like torso rose above the foremost legs, a torso clad in blackened armour. The beast’s face was a nightmarish combination of reptile and ogre, jagged teeth jutting from its lower lip, a horned helm covering its head. In its hands, the beast gripped an axe that was the equal of the weapon carried by Thar’Ignan.

  As the elves and men recoiled from the charging beast, it slammed one of its clawed feet against the floor, sending another blast of lightning crackling through the air.

  ‘Dragon-ogre!’ Vakaan cursed as his disc veered away from the electrical burst.

  Kormak crashed against the heated wall as he dove away from the lightning. He snarled as he felt the metal burn his skin. ‘Dragon or ogre,’ he spat, ‘it dies on my blade!’ The marauder swung away from the wall, rushing at the beast.

  ‘Help him,’ Pyra hissed, stabbing her finger at Beblieth. Reluctantly, the witch elf raced after the marauder. ‘The rest of you, get the Spear.’

  The other dark elves started to obey their mistress when a sickening phenomenon drew their attention. The mangled masses of the hounds Urbaal had butchered were rising again, their hideous wounds oozing closed, new legs growing from the stumps of the old. The warriors stared at each other in shock, then turned horrified eyes towards the pile of dogs the orcs had already killed. These too were rising again, wounds flowing closed, jaws gaping in revivified hunger. Hastily they formed a skirmish line, front ranks raising their spears, those at the rear aiming their crossbows.

  Pyra cursed as she saw her warriors set upon by
the dogs. She glared across the cavern. Gorgut and his warriors were fighting at the very edge of the crater, where the flagstones crumbled away into the raw earth. All it would take would be a minor spell, a little push, and the warlord would topple into the pit. It didn’t matter if the fall killed the black orc. She had faith Thar’Ignan could finish the job.

  As she wove her hands before her, shaping the dark energies of her magic into the spell she required, Pyra was struck by a withering blast of heat. She crumpled under the attack, only a desperate shift of her concentration allowing her to raise a protective barrier against the hostile magic. Smoke rose from her singed hair and garments, blisters peppered her pale skin. Sensing the cause of the attack, she locked eyes with the cringing goblin shaman. The creature was deranged if it thought its hedge magic was equal to the black arts of Naggaroth!

  Before Pyra could decide how she should obliterate the nuisance, Snikkit pointed a clawed finger at her. The sorceress shrieked in pain as an invisible weight smashed her foot. The goblin did not linger, but exploited her instant of distraction to lose himself among the combatants scattered about the lip of the crater. Pyra could only scowl at the retreating figure and add another indignity to her suffering.

  The dragon-ogre swung its axe at Kormak as the marauder charged it. The beast snarled its contempt as Kormak’s weapon glanced off the steel gut-plate lashed across its belly. A backhanded sweep of its weapon threw the marauder back, smashing him into the ground. The winded man looked up to see the dragon-ogre rushing at him, intent upon pulverizing him with its sheer weight.

  Kormak let it come, raging and howling. The floor shuddered beneath the dragon-ogre’s bulk, its every step sending crackling shivers of electricity racing through the stone. Still the Norscan waited, waited until escape seemed impossible. In that last instant before the dragon-ogre would grind him beneath its claws, he flung himself aside, rolling along the floor. As the beast swept past him, he struck out with his axe. The stolen weapon did not bite deep into the beast’s scaly flesh, but it cut the brute enough to bring blood bubbling up from the split skin.