Warbeast, page 16
His thoughts becoming a feverish blur, Felk heard a snap behind him and spun around in time to see the first slave collapsing, his weak bones unable to sustain him. A wet slapping noise heralded the gut of another splitting, its distended organs spilling out in a welter of undigested food and blood. The magic of the Horned One animated them still, set them flapping and cavorting across the uneven floor while more slaves burst, collapsed and broke under the magical assault.
Beside Felk the human corpses withered. The magical lightning sapped them of blood, fat and flesh. It turned their bones to dust, their blood to vapour, leaving only empty skin hanging in the air.
The fang of Skixakoth, as big as Felk’s outstretched claw from thumb to little finger, rose into the air, slowly rotating, held aloft by a miasma of jade warp energy. The fang stopped at about head height and righted itself, hanging down as though in an upper jaw. The fog started to coalesce into something more solid. Around the tooth a huge rat-like face crowned by thirteen horns shifted in and out of the mist.
Felk threw himself to the ground, averting his gaze. From the corner of his eye he saw his priests doing likewise. Some of the plague monks were not so swift. Their agonised shrieks cut across the thunderous pulsing that now filled the chamber, as they looked upon the visage of the Great Horned One and were sent mad. Wet mewling followed as they clawed out their eyes and gouged their flesh, trying to rid themselves of the sight, trying to free themselves from the gnawing that worried at their souls.
SPEAK.
The voice of the skaven god was not heard, it was felt. It was a rumbling in the rocks, a reverberation in the gut, a noise in the back of the head, a hissing in the ears. The scratching of ten thousand claws on the bones. The rasp of innumerable teeth, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing. The Poxmaster felt blood dribble from his ears and nose, but kept his face pressed into the dirt.
‘Poxmaster Felk, most devoted of the Horned Rat’s servants.’
FELK? WHY DO YOU SUMMON ME?
‘Offer Whiteworld Above to you, mightiest of mighty, potent deliverer of plague and distress. Grant me boon, hear Felk’s plea. A realmgate we have. Victory over sylvaneth. Death of life, pox unbound.’
THIS I SEE. FOR A LIFETIME YOU HAVE PROMISED WHITEWORLD ABOVE.
‘Yes-yes, but patient Felk has been. Good priest, loyal-loyal servant. Let humans kill and fight, look for realmgate. Now-now it is ours. Yours! Realmgate yours, great herald of oblivion, master of the thirteen deadly ways. Metal giants come-come. Much slaughter. Celebration not certain. Victory unclear. Beseech you, conjurer of abyssal torment, thirteen-times blessed lord of the realms. Grant power. Grant magic. Much-much power.’
IT SHALL BE.
Felk was snatched up by an invisible claw, lifted bodily into the air above his minions. He clutched his staff tightly to his chest, clenching every muscle to stop his musk glands betraying his terror. Tendrils of power flickered around him, caressing his fur to make it stand on end and sparking from his exposed teeth.
He looked down and saw the blazing rune of the Great Horned One, the lines of plague monks duplicating it within, the corpses of the slaves spattered in replica of that awful, awesome sigil.
KNOW MY POWER. FAIL ME NOT.
The gong of the Great Shrine tolled, louder than ever before, the shockwave of noise rolling out across the feast, tossing bodies into the air, passing on to flatten the walls of the spitevermin, toppling the hovels and ramshackle streets beyond. On and on it seemed to echo until Felk’s world was nothing but his claws digging into the wood of his staff and the dreadful ring of the Horned Rat’s declaration shuddering through his whole body.
In the silence that followed he thought he was falling. Falling so far he had to have passed into a great chasm, dropping into the gap between realms, disappearing along the gnawholes of the skaven and into the lair of the Great Witherer.
Felk saw the fang of the verminlord hanging in the air before him, glinting cruelly in the light. His hand reached out, not of his volition, clawed fingers opening to grasp the cursed tooth. He did not resist, knowing that it was the will of his god. His arm shaking, he held the tooth before him like a dagger.
Everything was darkness, but for the light from that jagged tooth. Felk moved his arm to expose his chest, his robes parting with their own life to bare his furred flesh.
With a hiss, he dragged the tooth closer, plunging it into his heart.
Pain engulfed Felk. Pain of every pox, every plague, every disease unleashed by the pestilent lords combined. He felt their power spreading from the wound, infecting him with their potency, the virulent energy rippling along arteries and veins, infusing organs with eternal power, the energy of Chaos itself.
In a blast of ecstatic fusion he was joined with the Great Horned One. His minds were filled with blistering images, of the gnaw-tunnels between worlds, stretching into the past and future, coiling through infinities, an impossible maze that burrowed through and under every mortal thing. And further still, into the Realm of Chaos, undermining the dominions of the four great powers.
The scurrying, gnawing, endlessly teeming mass of skaven thrived in the under-empire, enslaving, scavenging, growing in numbers beyond counting, ready to burst forth across all of the realms.
And there – a glimpse of realm-burrows working towards the bastions of Azyr, locked for so long by the will of the human god-king. An army of golden warriors bringing fire and death to the followers of Chaos. The metal giants, the soldiers of Sigmar.
For some it was the end. The last war that would see the worlds of mortals destroyed. Not for the Children of the Horned Rat. Death brought opportunity. Famine and plague, the companions of war, were ever ripe ground for the disciples of the Great Witherer.
Felk opened his eyes. A shadow loomed over him and he held a hand up, reflexively squealing in panic.
‘Poxmaster?’
The blur resolved into Skarth’s face. He bared his teeth, halberd held at the ready. A slight movement allowed Felk to see the ring of plague priests around him, concerned more by the blade of his fangleader than the state of their master’s health. Some looked openly disappointed at his recovery.
Felk sat up, fingers unconsciously questing for the reassuring feel of his staff, seeking the familiar cracked wood.
He remembered a last image, of the collapsing under-empire, of the dominions of the Great Horned One imploding back into him. Felk recalled the surge of power, and his staff exploding into threads and splinters.
It was his badge of office, his weapon and the channel for his power. He felt naked without it.
He stood up, staying close to Skarth. The priests and the spitevermin forming a cordon against the plague monks beyond let out a communal hiss of surprise. Skarth took a step back, lips curling back over dark gums.
Where Felk’s robe had fallen open, his chest was in plain view. The roots of Skixakoth’s fang could be seen just over his heart, protruding slightly from suppurating flesh. Threads of corruption pulsed like a web from the wound, spreading from the tooth across Felk’s chest and abdomen. He lifted a claw, allowing the voluminous sleeve to roll back, revealing corded tendrils of warp power gently gleaming beneath the skin. His nails were long and sharp as he flexed his fingers.
He pulled his robe closed and rose to his full height – a little taller than before, he thought, though perhaps he had always stooped without realising. The power of the Horned Rat’s blessing was evident not just in the visible signs. Felk could feel the energy flowing through him, spiralling and weaving through his body, suffusing his organs with putrid vitality.
‘Come-come, brothers.’ He gestured for his priests to gather closer. ‘Disciples of Felk, chosen of the Great Horned Rat. Bear witness to our master’s divine will.’
Cautiously, the plague priests approached, clutching their staves and knives, casting glances at each other.
‘Time has come,’ declared Felk. ‘Wrong we are, poor worshippers, selfish rat-rats! War we make. War good.’ He clenched his fists. Warp power dribbled from between his fingers like smoke. ‘Not fight with fist. Not fight with sword or halberd. We the masters of disease! Not conquer Whiteworld Above. Destroy it! All life, all humans, all giant men of Sigmar! My ruin-bringers, my plague-heralds, my warp-fiends, bear witness! Corpse-mountain we build. Plague furnaces we make. Wind of annihilation blows. Death-death, all things dead! When realmgate opens, tide of death unleashed. Much work to be done. Felk decrees, you obey.’
Cowed by this grand oratory and the halo of power wreathing their leader, the plague priests bowed and fell to their knees, faces hidden inside their hoods.
‘Praise Felk,’ cried the Poxmaster. ‘Lord of the Withered Canker, Slayer of the Whiteworld Above.’
‘Praise Felk,’ they intoned.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Not only had the Black River dammed itself to aid Arkas, it had steepened its banks downriver, swallowing the makeshift road beneath jagged rocks and mudslides. Some of the Chaos clans were not content to funnel up the gorge and attempted to scale the shallower sides of the defile to reach the wide expanse of the Bear’s Pelt. Arkas took this as the sign to announce the presence of his warriors.
Having crossed the stone bridges on the lake to set their ambush along both sides, Judicators lined the precipice edges to welcome the climbing warriors with volleys of shockbolts and skybolts. Burning from the touch of the celestial missiles, an avalanche of corpses fell back into the defile, causing panic amongst the packed tribal warriors below. Those not caught under their falling companions responded with angry shouts and a surge that sent many splashing into the river, scrapping with each other to forge their way to the easier ascent further along.
At a word from Arkas, his Prosecutors swept into the gorge, speeding along the twisting ravine and unleashing more heavenly arrows into the throng. Scattered projectiles leapt up to meet them but were poorly aimed and of little threat to the armoured fliers. Trolls and larger beasts hurled rocks and fistfuls of smaller stone, bellowing impotently at the tormentors soaring out of reach.
‘Arrows alone will not slay them all,’ said Ajfor, who had remained with Arkas to act as a messenger if needed. He pointed to the narrowest part of the ravine, where sharp, ice-covered rocks thrust like gigantic fangs. They glittered in the weak sun, the striations of red stone inside like trails of dried blood. ‘That is the best place to defend.’
‘The Jaws,’ said Arkas. ‘A good choice if I was going to pick somewhere to make a last stand.’
‘What do you intend, Uniter? We cannot hold them on the open ice.’
‘I don’t intend to hold them anywhere.’ Arkas beckoned to Doridun. ‘Prepare to signal the attack. We’ll push down the river and cut down anyone stupid enough not to run.’
The Knight-Heraldor nodded and relayed the order to Dolmetis, who carried the command to the nearest Primes. The Warbeasts moved closer to the edge of the ravine, ready to start their descent.
‘Attack?’ Ajfor’s eyes were so wide they seemed to bulge out of his head.
‘We are the storm of Sigmar’s wrath, the Celestial Vindicators, the Warbeasts,’ Arkas said with a grin. ‘We do not wait for battle to come to us, we seek it out.’
At his word, the Strike Chamber started the climb. Reaching the pebble-strewn bottom, where ice covered the small stones, the Warbeasts quickly assembled into their retinues, rallying on their Primes. The canyon turned to the left, masking them from view for the moment, though the Chaos warriors leading the attack could not have failed to see them disappearing from the clifftop.
‘Full charge, no mercy,’ Arkas barked to his Stormcasts. ‘Kill the foe in front, leave the foe to the left and right to your companions. We fight together, we win together.’
A guttural roar signalled the assent and readiness of the Warbeasts.
‘Come on then,’ laughed Arkas.
They reached full speed before the enemy came into view, pounding across the blue ice and splashing through the frothing water. Rounding the bend, Arkas saw that the foremost Chaos tribe were also moving swiftly.
Well-armed and armoured warriors led them, advancing at a trot, gathered beneath a banner of bone and stretched skin inked in gore with the symbol of the Blood God, Khorne. Some had bare heads, their faces heavily scarred and pierced, while others wore helms with curving bull’s horns fitted like tusks and tipped with jagged iron shards. Each bore two heavy hammers or maces, their gauntlets were spiked at the knuckles, and they wore metal bracers on their forearms.
Issuing bloody challenges, the Chaos warriors broke into a sprint, heedless of the threat posed by the Stormcasts, relishing the opportunity to slay the most powerful foes. The Warbeasts continued on at the same relentless pace, a wall of sigmarite that left a trail of shimmering celestial power on the rocks and dancing across the rapids.
The crash of the two forces rang down the canyon. The bodily impact of the Stormcasts sent many of the Chaos warriors hurtling and tumbling, while sweeps of starsoul maces and stormstrike glaives sent hewn corpses spinning into the reddening spume of the river.
Pushed on by the weight of their comrades behind, the leading edge of the Warbeasts rumbled down the gorge. Arkas, running along the left bank, cleaved a path with warhammer and runeblade, as Dolmetis and Doridun formed the point of the attack on the opposite side of the river.
The Prosecutors returned from their raking attacks further downstream and poured their missiles into the tribesmen just a dozen yards ahead of the Stormcast assault. One in three Chaos followers fell beneath the aerial onslaught, the survivors disorientated and split, easy prey for the rampaging Warbeasts.
The steep sides of the ravine left little room for manoeuvre – or escape. The more cowardly tribesmen found themselves trapped against the unforgiving rocks, cut down as they fled, crushed against the boulders by hammers and maces forged in the heavenly foundries of Sigmaron.
Preceded by the volleys from above, the Celestial Vindicators swept all before them, only the occasional flash of blue light showing where an unfortunate Stormcast had fallen to a lucky blow or an aggregation of many wounds. A corona of azure light moved before them like a bow wave, flickers of lightning from skybolts and shockbolts detonating in the depths. Ruined flesh and armour carpeted the defile in their wake, and the Black River ran crimson.
‘Easy now,’ bellowed Arkas as the gorge widened. They had pushed on perhaps a thousand paces, and here the river was slower, the sides of the defile not as steep. Warhounds and cavalry skirted the flanks, holding back for the moment, but waiting for the Stormcasts to over-extend and give them room around the flanks.
‘Hold fast!’ Arkas ordered.
The notes of the command rang out from Doridun’s clarion and the Strike Chamber stopped in a heartbeat, extending outwards as far as possible, the end of the line bowing slightly to present no space through which the enemy might slip.
‘Enough glory for each of us, my lord,’ said Martox. The Decimator-Prime stood a little way to Arkas’ left, his thunderaxe over one shoulder as he surveyed the mountain hordes.
Though his tone was light, Martox’s observation was correct. Two thousand at least had fallen already, but Arkas watched a sea of warriors still coming up the river. Freed from the strikes of the Prosecutors, several tribes, each a few hundred warriors strong, had started the ascent to the ice field again.
The nearest tribal groups pulled back, taking advantage of the sudden halt in the attack. Over their heads, Arkas could see larger monsters being brought to the fore – skull-faced khorgoraths with bulging bodies and flailing bone-tentacles, Chaos-twisted spawn that defied category and description, and other mutant monstrosities covered in scale and fur and sharp spines. More heavily armoured warriors shouldered their way through the barbarian marauders, line-breakers determined to make a breach in the Stormcast wall. Behind them came plate-armoured warriors on the backs of huge destriers covered by caparisons of bronze mail, fire burning in the eyes of their daemonically blessed steeds.
War altars dedicated to the Dark Powers were carried forwards on the backs of scaled beasts or held aloft by chained slaves blinded and whip-scarred. Arcane magic spilled from these unholy totems, polluting the draughts of Ghurite energy that flowed with the Black River. Cockatrices and chimerae from the deep forests were goaded forwards by hooded beast-handlers. All the myriad forces of the Chaos Gods were arrayed against the Warbeasts, the river valley thick with their numbers.
‘At least it’s stopped snowing,’ Martox continued.
Laughing, Arkas looked up. The clouds were there, grey and pregnant with a fresh blizzard, but for the moment Martox was right.
The Lord-Celestant saw something against the gloom, small at first but swiftly approaching. As it came closer he could make out that it was a bird, quite large, with multicoloured wings.
Smiling, Arkas raised his sword and flexed his grip on his warhammer.
‘Charge!’ he roared.
The sky glittered, a coruscating backdrop of magic that made stark the descending silhouettes of angels. The Angelos Conclave of the Silverhands fell with swift fury on the dark legions, first clearing the ravine walls of foes before raking missiles into the Chaos tribesmen. A few dozen tainted warriors managed to clamber to safety on the glacier, only to be met by Hastor and Venian, who were quickly joined by the rest of Arkas’ Prosecutors.
The army of Theuderis arrayed on the heights above the river, a line of ivory and blue that stretched far, the air above crackling with latent celestial energy. The Silverhand himself sat astride his dracoth, which reared in salute to the Warbeasts, lightning forking from its mouth. Knights-Vexillor and Knights-Heraldor held the line for a moment, awaiting the command of their lord.
Theuderis swung down his blade and the clarions blared. Icons aloft, the Knights-Vexillor led the attack. Lightning churned along the defile, leaping in chains through the warriors in the river, charring fleshing and melting armour.
