Warbeast, page 12
Theuderis was about to deliver a rebuke but stayed his tongue. This was his first encounter with his new allies and it would bode poorly for the relationship if he started it with chastisement. He had to accept that the warning had been sent in earnest, and that Hastor was simply attending to his duty as he had been commanded. Hastor was forthright in his manner, but the Celestial Vindicators, and the Warbeasts in particular, had a reputation for less-than-perfect discipline. He chose his reply carefully, mindful that his words and deeds might soon be reported back to Arkas and his warriors.
‘Thank you, Hastor. Though your skills as herald are lacking, your warrior-craft is not. You dealt with that manticore in admirable fashion.’ He purposefully turned to survey the ongoing battle. As they spoke, the two warriors moved along with the Judicators, unconsciously keeping station with the whole formation. ‘I regret that I cannot offer you a reply to Lord Arkas at the moment. My attention is keenly needed elsewhere.’
‘As is my bow,’ said Hastor, glancing to the flights of warriors closing on the griffons, manticores and other monstrous creatures aloft. ‘My lord’s other message will wait a while, I’m certain. With your permission, Lord Silverhand?’
‘Knight-Azyros Samat is Angelos-Prime,’ said Theuderis. ‘I am grateful for your bow, Hastor.’
The Knight-Venator said nothing else and sprang into the air. A whistle summoned his star-eagle to follow and in a matter of moments they were another colourful blur amongst the many soaring across the cloudy vault of the sky.
Theuderis lifted his sword, the runes flashing with renewed celestial energy. The Judicators parted at his approach, allowing him to rejoin the fight.
‘No beast lives past nightfall!’ he declared, hacking his way towards the bray-shamans with renewed intent. ‘Sigmar God-King expects nothing less.’
Chapter Seventeen
The Black River had always been named for its dark waters, not just murky but as black as pitch. Even after many lifetimes, its inky depths were unchanged. It bubbled and frothed between dozens of jutting pillars that had once held aloft the roofs of a great palace, the walls and floor also long since consumed by the torrent. The blackness of the water was deceiving, obscuring the speed with which it moved – too fast even for a Stormcast to forge across. The Celestial Vindicators were thus forced to follow the old road that ran beside it – though it was not so much a road as the remains of an old mosaic-covered floor that had been thrown up by the convulsions of Ursungorod, laid out before Arkas like a carpet set before an arriving dignitary. The broken tiles were slick with river mud and water plants, but made for surer footing than the sheer ice that stretched for miles to either side as they approached the central uplands.
From ahead a shape descended quickly. Arkas recognised Venian, his Prosecutor-Prime.
‘A stranger approaches, my lord.’ There was something odd in Venian’s tone, as if this event was more worrying to the Prosecutor-Prime than the coming of a flight of dragons.
‘A stranger? A very particular choice of word,’ replied Arkas.
‘I can think of no other.’ The flying warrior landed next to his Lord-Celestant and fell into step with him as they continued along the path. ‘A woman of the tribes. Armed with bow and spear, and armoured in scale, wearing a cloak of white fur.’
‘And how does she “approach”, Venian? What do you mean?’
‘She crosses the snow drifts ahead, directly towards us.’
‘And she saw you?’
‘She raised a fist in salute, my lord.’
Arkas pondered this for a few strides.
‘Alone, you say? Are you sure?’
‘The ice field ahead is expansive, my lord, and devoid of much cover,’ Venian said, his tone slightly clipped with indignation.
‘She bore no marks of the Dark Gods? No mutation or symbols?’
‘I would have reported such, my lord,’ said the Prosecutor-Prime, growing increasingly vexed by his commander’s questions. ‘Unless she possesses unprecedented and hidden mystical abilities, I do not think she is a threat.’
‘That’s what confuses me,’ admitted Arkas. He shook his head. ‘I resigned myself to the fact that my people were no more, slain or fallen to Chaos worship. Now you tell me that a woman approaches, unmarked by the Dark Gods, which suggests that there are yet some that still resist the skaven and their allies. Your report stirs hope where I had none. Its loss would be a fresh wound.’
‘It seems your hope is not misplaced, my lord. Her trail across the snow was simple to follow for a while, though it petered out eventually. She has been heading directly towards us for the better part of a day. She is seeking us out, I wager my reputation on it. How she can know of us or where we travel I cannot say.’
Arkas looked up and gestured with his hammer. Across the river there were dark specks moving over the clouds – crows and other carrion eaters. They had been growing in number since the Celestial Vindicators had descended to the lower slopes, having quickly learnt that the Stormcasts would provide ample pickings.
‘In my days as a mortal there were those that could speak with the birds and the beasts.’ He thought of Radomira, a reader of bird sign, and remembered the times she would have a raven or hawk or finch upon her wrist, woman and bird cawing and chirping intently to each other. ‘If there were survivors of the alliance, if their descendants still strive for freedom, such secrets might still be known.’
‘Not only by potential allies,’ said Venian. ‘Such spies could serve our enemies also, my lord.’
‘I have been counting on it,’ said Arkas. ‘Do not forget our part in this campaign. We are the rod that attracts the lightning. We will stir the Chaos followers and skaven from their camps and holes and bring them to us, so that Theuderis and his Knights Excelsior can lay the vengeance of Sigmar down upon them with their arrival. We shall be the bait that draws the serpent’s strike, the Silverhands the blade that severs its head.’
The path veered away from the bank, moving around a block of stone mounted on the bank of the river. On its worn surface could still be seen faint markings – duardin runes worn nearly smooth by the elements. Even so, Arkas could read them, running his fingers over the faint indentations.
‘A mile marker,’ he said aloud. ‘A day’s marching to another duardin city, though long ago it was swallowed by the glacier we called meshka kozia. The Bear’s Pelt. The city lies beneath the ice field you have just come back from.’
‘It has been swallowed deep then, my lord,’ said Venian. ‘We saw no sign of tower, gate or wall.’
A thought occurred to Arkas and he turned, his gaze seeking out his Knight-Vexillor. Dolmetis followed a hundred paces behind with a guard of Decimators and Retributors. Seeing that his lord required him, the standard bearer hurried forwards, his icon gripped in both hands.
‘A new command to the chamber, Dolmetis,’ said Arkas, as soon as the Knight-Vexillor was within earshot. ‘We leave the river and head across the ice field.’
‘Towards the stranger?’ asked Venian.
‘Of course. I’m sure she has something important to tell us. We shan’t make her labour longer than necessary.’ Arkas leaned closer, placing a hand on the shoulder of the Prosecutor-Prime. ‘You assured me she was no threat, yes? You staked your reputation on it. Let us see what that is worth.’
Chapter Eighteen
The dark cavern stank of human sweat and fear. Felk breathed in deeply, whiskers trembling with delight. The captives huddled naked in their rope bonds, most kneeling or sitting, some lying down from weakness. There were four hundred in total, eyes wide with fear, shaking with cold and hunger. The Poxmaster rubbed spindly hands together as he paced back and forth, examining his prizes.
‘Good-good meat,’ said Felk, addressing nobody in particular. ‘Good tribute, yes-yes. Great Horned Rat touched you, yes-yes. Honoured, to become the flesh of the Great Witherer. Dismal feast will be grand, grander than all before. Gaze of the Great Horned Rat be upon the Withering Canker. Felk will rise, yes-yes, rise past all, even Skixakoth. Not to fat rotting god will life-woods fall. To the children of the Horned Rat, to the Clans Pestilens, to the Withering Canker. Plague and pox and pustule, yes-yes, the flesh of the life-queen will crawl with gifts of Pestilens.’
The cluster of pale faces stared up at him in horror as the prisoners recoiled from his presence, shifting like a single organism to avoid being in the Poxmaster’s vicinity as he stalked back and forth, staff clacking on the stone floor. In the light of the warp-lamps, their skin seemed so white, so smooth and pale, and their eyes, glistening with tears, were almost good enough to pluck out and swallow right there.
Felk fought back against the urge.
‘Not for now. For dismal feast, yes-yes.’ He stopped and leaned on his staff, peering down at the captives, broken claws tapping an arrhythmic tattoo on the twisted wood. He inspected the closest specimens, finding on each one some mark of the Great Horned Rat – a wart or cluster of boils, a suppurating lesion or weeping sore, cataract or rash.
‘Chosen, yes-yes. You will be punished. Great Horned One has taken blessing from you, bad-bad man-things. Roast and boil and spitted, for the dismal feast your bones broken, such crispy skin, flesh purged of evil and devoured for Blessed Plague of Plagues.’
Drool flowed as Felk imagined the eating pits filled with the meat of his sacrifices. One of the captives started to moan and others broke into sobs, their despair a virus that spread quickly through the craven mass until all were crying and groaning. Some wailed with lament, clawing at their hair and skin.
‘Stop-stop!’ snapped Felk, claws and tail shaking violently.
The temptation was too much, he had to turn away. Skarth, whose spitevermin ringed the cave, approached a few steps. He said nothing but jerked his head towards the entrance to the chamber. Thriss lurked in the shadows, hands wringing close to his chest.
The gutter runner’s demeanour punctured Felk’s good mood, concern sweeping away his anticipation of the dismal feast. With an irritated wave Felk commanded Thriss to enter.
The gutter runner sidled up to his employer, head held low, tail limp. The Poxmaster had never seen Thriss so subordinate and he instantly suspected trickery.
‘Stay-stay there,’ Felk snapped, prodding the gutter runner with his staff to force him back several paces. Thriss complied without resistance, heightening Felk’s suspicion.
‘Bad-bad news, legendary Poxmaster,’ began Thriss, head bobbing in deference. ‘Makargas. The Beast-caller... ‘
‘Yes-yes? Demanding higher price? Treachery?’
‘Is dead-dead.’
Felk shrugged. ‘Not problem for us.’
‘All beasts dead. Metal giants kill-kill Makargas and all beasts.’
The Poxmaster thought he had misheard for a moment.
‘Beast army dead? All dead?’
Thriss nodded and bared yellowing fangs. He shifted from one foot to the other and back, unable to hold still any longer.
‘Metal giants bring magic and fire. Much-much magic.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Star magic, power of storm and sun!’
This news sent a fresh shudder of fear through Felk. He had heard tales – many of them from Thriss, it was true – regarding a new foe that had been seen throughout the many realms. They were carried on a dire storm, relentless and merciless. Several clans had been wiped out and terrified survivors of others had fled back to the Blight City with stories of indestructible armies and warriors that rode lightning.
‘Is true-true?’ Felk’s gaze flicked around the room, from Thriss to the slaves to Skarth and back again, suddenly wary of everything. ‘Very bad-bad for us.’
‘For you...’ Thriss corrected him. The Eshin agent took another step back as though physical distance would spare him any consequences of their association.
‘Us-us!’ hissed Felk. He crooked a finger towards Skarth, beckoning him closer. Thriss sidestepped at the larger skaven’s approach, the gutter runner’s hands hovering close to the dagger hilts jutting from his belt. ‘Fangleader, what is our contract, my will-will?’
‘Power to the Withered Canker. Foes slain.’ The fangleader looked pointedly at Thriss. ‘Revenge in death.’
‘What about gate?’ said the gutter runner, eyes narrowing.
‘Metal giants come for gate, must be true-true,’ said Felk. ‘Not chance we find gate and star-born army comes to Whiteworld Above. Dig-dig faster. More slaves. Pay warpstone to man-things, beast-things, all-things. Kill-kill metal giants first.’
‘What if star army comes here?’ said Thriss.
‘We fight,’ replied Skarth.
It took all of Felk’s self-control not to release a squirt of musk at the thought. The moment passed and he looked at the slave-sacrifices. His resolved hardened and his grip on his staff tightened.
‘Too close-close to fail. Gate is ours! Glory to the Withered Canker! Must be ready for fight. For war.’ He waved a staff towards the slaves. ‘Dismal feast not wait! Tonight we honour Great Horned Rat with offerings. Prepare the meat.’
As Felk departed, Thriss following a few steps behind, Skarth signalled to his spitevermin. The ring of warriors readied their rust-spotted weapons and closed on the humans.
Chapter Nineteen
Though the shadows were long, the Knights Excelsior were equal to Theuderis’ demand. After the crash and shrill clamour of battle, the forested slopes fell to deathly silence, only the crackle of flames to break the stillness.
Theuderis walked amongst the dead – the corpses of foes, of course. A number of his Stormcasts had been undone, overpowered by hulking Chaos brutes or outnumbered and dragged down. They had been taken back to the Celestial Realm to be reforged again. It was a strange experience, to survey the carnage of the fighting and yet not know the true cost he had paid until his Primes reported.
‘I am not altogether sure that I like it,’ he told Attaxes, who had been at his shoulder since the arrival of Glavius’ conclave.
‘Like what, my lord?’
‘The emptiness.’
‘There is plenty to see,’ said Attaxes, stepping over the remains of a centigor, its head cleaved to the chin. He pointedly turned over the body of another, its hind legs flopping where they had been mangled by a hammer blow. ‘Much to be happy about.’
‘Do you not find it unsettling, Attaxes? When you were mortal, before you ascended, you were a general, yes?’
‘A Sinistran Legation Commandant, in the Westering Marshes, in the Realm of Shadows. Is that important?’
‘And you walked many battlefields as we do now.’
‘Thirty-eight battles I fought, thirty-seven I won before the poisoned wind of the skaven nearly took me and Sigmar ascended my spirit.’
‘Were you never moved by the bodies of those that had fallen under your command? Did their loss mean nothing?’
‘It meant everything. On their shades I swore each time to bring vengeance for their sacrifice.’
‘Exactly! How do we remember the lost if they are not truly gone? I have lost many warriors today, but they are not dead. What does that mean?’
‘It is not for us to count the cost any longer.’ This came from Theuderis’ left, where Lord-Relictor Glavius approached, his war-plate as bloodied as his lord’s. The icon he held was dormant now, as was the hammer in his fist. The bones of his reliquary seemed just that – dead bones strapped into a metal coffin.
‘But there is a cost,’ Theuderis replied.
‘Only to them,’ said Glavius, pointing with his hammer at the hundreds of dead beastmen. ‘That is the only tally of merit. When the enemy are all dead, the battle is won, not before. That is why the Lord Sigmar takes the fallen from us. Their loss should not trouble your thoughts, until your thoughts cannot be troubled any longer.’
‘You wield the power celestial,’ said Attaxes. ‘What do you know of the Reforging? Truly?’
‘No more than you,’ Glavius admitted with a reluctant shake of the head. ‘When a Stormcast passes beyond the veil of the mortal and back to the Celestial Realm, he passes from my sight also. If the God-King chooses to pass a little of his blessing through me on occasion, that is all I can hope for. To kill or heal, two equally potent powers, yet neither the greater over the other.’
A shout from one of the Liberators drew their attention. The Stormcast Eternal stood near a pile of ungor bodies, which were heaped like a curving wall. Theuderis realised it was the spot where he had left Tyrathrax and hurried over.
‘What is it?’
The Liberator gestured in reply, indicating the dracoth half buried under the bodies, the remains of a small beastman still clamped in her jaws, scales slick with their vile blood. The sight was difficult, a reminder that perhaps it was better not to see the remains of one’s companions. He knelt down and held out a hand to stroke the beast’s gore-covered neck, aware of the shadows of Attaxes and Glavius falling over him.
Tyrathrax twitched, an eye opening to stare at Theuderis.
‘She lives...’ He stood up, as stunned as though dealt a blow. ‘She slew many and their corpses hid her from vengeful foes.’
‘Only just,’ said Glavius, pushing aside the mound of corpses with a booted foot. This exposed the cuts and gashes along the flanks of the dracoth, her hide rent in many places, armour broken and buckled. ‘I feel the celestial power leeching from her. The darkness of death beckons her spirit back to the stars.’
Theuderis stood up, eyes still on Tyrathrax. ‘Can you save her?’
Glavius looked between lord and dracoth several times, though whether doubtful of his ability or duty was unclear.
