by C. L. Werner
The dragon-ogre wailed more in outrage than hurt. It felt its damp flank, staring incredulously at its purplish blood on its hand. Yellow eyes narrowed into little pinpoints of hate. The monster stamped its clawed feet, bursts of lightning crackling up from the flagstones. It grunted and licked its fangs.
Kormak ran his hand down his axe until his fingers were wet with the monster’s blood. He flicked it at the fuming dragon-ogre. ‘Try it,’ he jeered.
The dragon-ogre quivered with fury. It stamped its feet again, this time melting the stone with the intensity of its electric touch. Every hair on Kormak’s body stood on end as the current crackled through him. Blue fire rippled from his armour and his axe. The smell of his own burnt flesh assailed him. The marauder cried out, falling to his knees as pain overwhelmed him.
The dragon-ogre snorted in contempt. No maddened charge this time, instead the monster slowly stomped towards Kormak, each tramp of its feet sending new slivers of agony rushing through the man’s body. The dragon-ogre hefted its axe, its yellow eyes glaring down at him, the twisted face tightened into a bestial grin.
Kormak snarled up at the monster and stabbed it through the foreleg with his mutant arm. The sword-like limb punched through the beast’s knee, cutting through cartilage and tendon, fracturing bone and slicing reptilian veins. The dragon-ogre reeled back in surprise, its primitive nervous system only dimly aware of the damage dealt to it. As it recoiled, Kormak swung his axe at it, the blade slamming into its side just behind the thick metal gut-plate. The pallid flesh of its torso ripped apart beneath the blade, bright arterial blood spraying from the wound.
The dragon-ogre bellowed, slashing at Kormak with its axe. The flagstone beside the marauder exploded into a stinging shower of pebbles, but the man himself danced away from the vengeful steel. He struck out again at the beast, his sword-like arm raking along the heft of its axe, slicing away two fingers as it slid across the dragon-ogre’s hand.
Sparks danced before Kormak’s eyes as the dragon-ogre reversed its weapon, smashing him with the butt of its axe. Again the marauder flew through the air, crashing in a ball of pain against the searing bronze wall. The beast snorted and started to lumber after him. Its crippled foreleg buckled under its weight, sending it crashing to the floor. It shook its ugly head, trying to clear its jarred senses. The dragon-ogre’s eyes fixed on Kormak as the marauder tried to regain his feet. With a reptilian hiss, the beast rose, plodding towards its stunned prey, its crippled leg curled tight against its belly, one huge hand clamped against the gash in its torso.
Kormak watched the injured dragon-ogre resume its relentless march. The beast was in sorry shape, but it still had more than enough strength to finish him. The marauder tried to stand, but his ravaged body defied him. His axe felt like a leaden weight in his weakened grip, his horned head an impossible burden for his neck to raise. He bled from dozens of cuts and gashes; his skin was scarred and pitted with burns. Something in his midsection made a wet popping sound whenever he tried to move. It was all he could manage to put defiance into his gaze as he stared into the dragon-ogre’s reptilian eyes, daring the beast to do its worst.
The dragon-ogre snorted mockingly as it loomed over Kormak. It swatted the marauder down with its axe, ripping through his shoulder, then its clawed foot drove down into his chest, pinning him beneath its bulk. Kormak screamed as the monster’s lightning burned through his flesh. The dragon-ogre stared down at him with pitiless eyes and lifted its axe for a final decapitating blow.
The blow never fell. A lithe form suddenly appeared upon the dragon-ogre’s back, leaping onto the beast from the shadows. Before the beast could react, a silvery dagger was raked across its throat, digging deep into its leathery flesh. The beast’s huge axe crashed to the floor as it clutched at its spurting neck. Beblieth slashed the brute again, just above its clinging hands, sending another gout of brackish blood spraying from the beast.
Smiling, the witch elf jumped gracefully from the dying monster’s back, landing in a catlike crouch only inches from Kormak’s head. She watched expectantly as the dragon-ogre slumped. Kormak cried out as he felt the full weight of the beast press down against him, threatening to shatter his ribs. Then the monster crashed onto its side, its tail writhing and lashing as the last of its life drained out of it. Beblieth studied the monster’s death throes with malicious interest, savouring every spasm. At last she looked down at the tortured marauder and smiled cruelly.
‘When you want to kill something,’ she told him, ‘then kill it. Don’t play around.’ Her cold fingers brushed against his forehead, tracing along his cheeks, circling his lips. ‘If you hurry, you might be able to crawl back to your healer before you die,’ she hissed before vanishing once more into the shadows.
Gorgut snarled at the minotaur as he brought his glowing spear stabbing at the black orc. The warlord knocked it aside with the heft of his axe, then twisted away as Thar’Ignan brought his own axe chopping at the orc’s side. The warboss barked with laughter, feeling the joy of battle thundering through his veins. Here was a foe that was worth fighting, an enemy capable of putting up a decent scrap! Gorgut sent a brutal kick into the knee of one of his warriors as he tried to attack the minotaur from the flank. The startled warrior dropped, squealing as Thar’Ignan noticed him. The minotaur brought his axe swinging around, chopping off the helmet and top part of the warrior’s skull as it swept past.
Served the git right, Gorgut thought, for trying to poach. The minotaur was his to kill and nobody else’s. Let the lads fight the dogs or finish off the goat-headed guards, but Thar’Ignan was his. He wouldn’t have some snot-nosed grot boasting about how he helped the warlord finish off the minotaur. If anyone was going to have bragging rights, it was Gorgut Foechewer!
The black orc’s fist smacked hard into the minotaur’s face, reminding it where the real fight was. The stupid brute seemed to get distracted every time it killed something, sniffing and snorting as the smell of blood struck its nose. Gorgut didn’t like that. There was no sport killing something that wasn’t paying attention. That sort of thing was goblin work. He wasn’t someone who did goblin work.
Suddenly, the minotaur twisted about in pain. Gorgut peered past the stricken monster to see a big human in dark armour slashing at the brute with a glowing sword. The orc’s temper swelled. It was bad enough trying to keep his overeager lads from poaching, he wasn’t about to let some miserable human take the credit. That was the sort of thing that would make him lose face with his warband, the kind of thing that made orcs desert a leader and look for someone tougher to follow.
Gorgut smashed the flat of his axe against his chest, roaring with rage. He started to rush the interloping human. He only got a few steps before he felt Thar’Ignan’s axe smash into him. The orc was thrown by the impact, his huge bulk smashing through orcs and hounds as he hurtled through the air. A flash of memory rippled through his mind, as he was reminded of being kicked by his war boar when he had only been a young runt. Something broke his fall when he landed, something that swore and snarled beneath him. He pounded his fist into its head until it shut up, then stared at the dripping mess where the minotaur’s axe had struck him. He poked a finger into the mush, coughing as he decided the weird thing sticking out of his skin was a bone.
‘You all right, boss?’ The question came from Snikkit, the robed shaman scrambling over the groaning bodies of those thrown back by Gorgut’s impromptu flight. The goblin was fumbling a bottle of something from his bag.
Gorgut scowled at the shaman, then snatched the bottle from Snikkit’s hand. He sniffed at the mouth, then smashed it against his bleeding chest. The pungent fungus potion burned as it splashed into his wounds, but the black orc gave it small notice. He idly picked a sliver of glass from his skin as it started to scab over, then glowered at the shaman.
‘No, I ain’t all right!’ he barked. ‘That weedy human is trying to steal my kill!’ Gorgut glanced around him, then picked up his axe from the tangle of bodies
. ‘But he ain’t going to get away with it!’ the black orc promised.
Snikkit nodded his head in fawning agreement. Gorgut cuffed him on the side of the head, throwing him to the ground. The last thing he was in the mood for was a cheerleader.
Thar’Ignan was fully occupied by Urbaal when Gorgut charged back to rejoin the fight. Man and minotaur circled one another, jabbing and thrusting with spear and sword. The beast towered over the human, but Urbaal did not give ground before him. Indeed, the man seemed almost the beast’s equal in strength and fury. When the minotaur struck at him, Urbaal caught its blows against his parrying sword, using his own prodigious strength to push Thar’Ignan back. Gorgut was forced to reluctantly admit that the human was a tough one.
It didn’t matter though. The minotaur was his to kill. The lads wouldn’t respect him if he let anyone else kill it. Roaring, Gorgut rushed the monster, slashing its back with his axe. It wasn’t a deep cut, just something to get the monster’s attention. Thar’Ignan swung around, bellowing his anger.
‘Remember me?’ Gorgut roared back. The black orc sent his axe smashing into Thar’Ignan’s arm, chewing through its muscles to scrape against the bone. This time when the beast threw back his head, it was pain that coloured his cry. Gorgut grinned with brutal satisfaction and raised his axe for another strike.
Suddenly the orc found himself flailing at the empty air as he teetered on the edge of the broken flagstones. The crater yawned beneath him like the maw of some gigantic beast. Gorgut had not seen what smashed into him, but it had felt like the fist of a giant. His grasping hands coiled about the minotaur’s spear as Thar’Ignan stabbed at him. Gorgut wrapped his arms around the weapon, sinking his claws into the hand that gripped it.
Then the orc was falling, dropping down into the pit, pulling Thar’Ignan after him. Both monsters crashed hard against the jagged floor of the crater, crimson dust rising in a cloud from their impact. It was Gorgut who was first on his feet. The minotaur snarled at him as it struggled to rise, one of its legs snapped below the knee. Gorgut glared down at the brute and with an overhand motion buried his axe between its horns. Such was the fury of his blow, Gorgut felt his cheek ripped open by a splinter of bone flying from the beastlord’s skull.
Gorgut smashed his foot into the dead bulk’s neck, standing over the trembling carcass. He beat his hands against his chest and roared his triumph. Around the lip of the crater, he saw orcs and goblins grinning down at him. His eyes narrowed as he saw the dark-armoured human starting to climb down. Gorgut tried to free his axe from the ruin of Thar’Ignan’s head, but it was stuck fast. He growled and turned to rip the minotaur’s axe from its dead paw. Gorgut fingered the keen edge and bared his tusks at the descending human, fatigue and injury taking a second seat to the black orc’s eagerness for battle.
‘Gorgut Foechewer,’ a voice called down to him.
Gorgut lifted his head to see a feathered human hovering over the crater. The weird human pointed down to the warlord. ‘The warriors of the Raven Host are impressed by your valour.’
‘Youse lot gonna be real impress’d when I kill ya!’ Gorgut bellowed back. He glowered at the descending Urbaal and made ready to charge the champion.
‘Gorgut has killed many great foes,’ Vakaan persisted. ‘But if he joins with the Raven Host, he shall fight even greater battles.’ The black orc’s brow wrinkled with interest at that remark. ‘If he will follow Urbaal the Corruptor, he will face enemies such as no orc has fought. The name of Gorgut will be mighty among the greenskins.’ Vakaan’s voice dropped into a hollow whisper. ‘All that we ask in return is that Gorgut shares his triumph with us.’
The warlord scowled at the magus, keeping one eye on Urbaal as he did. ‘Ya ain’t takin’ da axe!’ he bellowed, fingering the trophy he had torn from Thar’Ignan’s dead clutch.
‘It is the Spear, not the axe that I want,’ Urbaal growled back at the orc.
Gorgut stared at the Chosen, then looked at the still glowing Spear. He shrugged his broad shoulder. ‘Ya want that fancy git-sticker, ya can take it,’ the orc snarled.
Urbaal strode past the black orc, his sword at the ready, and pulled the blood-slick Spear from beneath Thar’Ignan’s corpse. He lifted it and shook it at Vakaan. The magus nodded his head, turning to smile at the dark elves as they crept to the crater and saw the relic in Urbaal’s grasp. With the orcs on the side of the Raven Host, the dark elves had lost their numerical advantage. Vakaan was under no illusion that the greenskins could be trusted, but at least they were no friends of Pyra and her followers.
The sorceress turned a bitter face to the hovering magus. ‘What now?’ she hissed, unable to keep the smouldering fury from her tone.
‘Now we find Lord Slaurith and the archmage,’ Vakaan told her. He looked again at the Spear in Urbaal’s fist. ‘We will need them both if we are to reconsecrate the Spear and bend it to our will.’
Chapter Fifteen
Kormak’s arm scythed through the howling, black-clad berserker, shredding his ragged armour of boiled leather and strips of chain. The man was torn apart at the waist, flopping obscenely to the floor in two dripping halves. For good measure, Kormak brought the heavy edge of his axe smashing into the berserker’s skull-like helm, splitting his head open. The marauder grunted as he ripped the cumbersome axe free, bits of brain clinging to its edge. Even with his wounds healed by Tolkku’s magic, the marauder found the axe he had scavenged off the dead dragon-ogre to be a formidable weapon.
All around him, Kormak saw his comrades beating back the shrieking mass of black-armoured madmen. They were ugly, hulking brutes, their faces locked behind masks of bone. Their shouts and screams were not those of Norscan or Hung or southling, but the sibilant tones of the Dark Tongue itself. Who these men had been, what they once were, had been lost, consumed by the fires of the Blood God’s rage. Upon each breastplate, upon each spiked shoulderpad or vambrace the skull-rune was etched, engraved or embossed. Slaves of Khorne, these men had forsaken their old lives to become warriors of the Skulltakers, denizens of the Path of Fury, the Second Step of the Bastion Stair.
Barbarians crumpled as dark elf crossbows ripped into them. Berserkers were ripped apart as orc choppas pounded through their bodies. The wounded were set upon by the goblins, giggling sadists with long spears and cruel imaginations. Kormak saw one Skulltaker transformed into a pillar of ice by the sorcery of Pyra, another shrieking in agony as Naagan’s witchcraft melted the bones beneath his face. Beblieth was a whirling dervish of dismemberment and murder, her mangled adversaries tumbling away from her like waves retreating from a desolate shore. The poisoned arrows of Zagbob whistled through the air, skewering throats, dropping men so they would be easy prey for the goblin’s slavering squigs.
At the forefront of the battle were Urbaal and Gorgut, man and orc trying to outdo one another as they made the Skulltakers pay the butcher’s toll. The black orc tore through his opponents, laughing and growling with each mutilating sweep of his axe. Urbaal was silent and remorseless as death, leaving only twitching corpses each time he thrust his sword.
Urbaal carved his way through the berserkers, facing the huge brute who was their champion, a great pale-skinned barbarian with a horned helm of bronze and wielding a monstrous double-axe. The champion appreciated the carnage Urbaal had wrought to reach him, saluting the Chosen with a tilt of his axe. Then the barbarian roared and flung himself upon his foe and battle was joined.
The big axeman was the equal of any normal warrior; even Kormak wondered if he could have bested the enraged champion. Urbaal, however, was no mere warrior, but a man who bore the mark of Tzeentch upon his soul. His sword lashed out like a tongue of flame, cutting through the steel of the axe as though it were butter. The champion stared in disbelief at his ruined weapon, then reversed it to bring the remaining edge hurtling down at Urbaal.
The Chosen brought his sword flashing under the barbarian’s guard, chopping through his arm, crunching through ribs and lungs until he r
ipped the point from the champion’s chest in a welter of blood and torn flesh. The barbarian staggered, refusing to accept the damage inflicted upon him. He tried to draw upon all the reserves of strength left in his dying body, trying to will himself to a final effort. Urbaal stabbed the point of his sword up through his chin and braided beard, impaling his brain and ending his fight.
The death of their champion broke the remaining Skulltakers. The barbarians scattered, fleeing down the brass-edged archways that opened into the bronze-walled corridor. The dark elves sent a punishing barrage after them while a few over-eager orcs pursued them into the darkness.
‘Skulltakers,’ Vakaan pronounced as he inspected one of the dead. The magus let the bone helm clatter to the floor beside the berserker who had worn it. ‘A mongrel tribe of murderers and madmen, devotees of the Blood God. They live only to kill, to spill more blood for their god and to bring more heads for his throne. They venerate the Skulltaker, Khorne’s daemon executioner. It is said that only those who have seen the Skulltaker and lived are allowed to join the tribe.’
‘They die like men, not monsters,’ Tolkku said, spitting on one of the bodies.
‘Do not make the mistake of underestimating the warriors of the Blood God,’ Naagan cautioned the zealot. ‘There are many in the Shadowlands who have thought them mere mad beasts and paid for their hubris.’
Tolkku laughed at Naagan. ‘Elves, perhaps, but not warriors of the Raven God. We are suckled upon guile and cunning. There is nothing the slaves of Khorne can do that will surprise a servant of Tzeentch. Howl and charge, that is as far as their thinking goes. If they cannot find an enemy to kill, they fall upon themselves. They are more like beasts than the greenskins.’ Zagbob appeared to be spying upon the exchange and the goblin puffed himself up with pride as he heard Tolkku’s backhanded compliment.
