Warbeast, page 20
It was good that they would leave, that the attack would take him far away into the bowels of the skaven lair, out of sight of the spreading sickness.
Guilt welled up at that thought. The feeling of abandoning his people again forced him to take in another stuttering lungful of mountain air.
Another tremor shook the mountain, strong enough to sway the trees this time. Arkas staggered over to a nearby trunk and leaned his free hand against the rough bark, trying to draw reassurance from its solidity, its unyielding nature.
He could feel the rush of Ghurite energy streaming from the roots and into the trunk and branches, spreading into the air like a fog. Not just the roots of the tree, the roots of the mountain, the depths of Ursungorod itself. The endless deeps of the Shadowgulf. It was in him too, connecting him to the land, to the wild places above and below the ground.
Pain scored up through his bones, the like of which he had not felt since being reforged. His fingers dug knuckle-deep into the tree as he fought back against the agony that suddenly coursed through him.
He remembered the meaning of that pain, what it heralded. He stumbled away, tearing a fistful of wood as he went. Arkas flung away his hammer. He fell to his knees, eyes wide, teeth bared like an animal. The ground shook constantly now, dusting him with falling snow and pine needles.
‘No,’ he snarled.
He thought that he had been freed of the bear’s gift-curse when Sigmar had altered his body upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis. He was Stormcast, a lord of the Celestial Vindicators. His spirit belonged to another.
Perhaps he was wrong. His sigmarite-fused fleshed rebelled against the influx of Ghurite energy. Celestial power and savage, aeons-old magic confronted each other, like a pack of wolves howling at the distant moon.
On all fours, Arkas shuddered and the mountain shuddered with him. Through the rushing of blood in his ears he heard the shouts of the Ursungorans and the bellowed commands of Stormcast Eternals. The words were meaningless sounds, drowned out by the thunderous heartbeat that threatened to burst his chest.
He could not resist the pain any longer, could no longer fight the surge of energy trying to break his bones and reshape his flesh.
Staggering to his feet, Arkas seized the closest tree. Celestial magic and beast power came together. Lightning flashed across his armour and the glow of savage power lit his eyes. He ripped up the tree, roots tearing the frozen earth.
He wanted to roar, to howl, to free the savage noise building in his head. In the small part of his mind that was still his, Arkas knew he could not. It was his will, his choice whether he embraced or rejected the beast trying to possess him.
The tree exploded into burning shards, showering him with ash and sharp splinters.
Arkas stood with fists clenched in front of him.
‘I am a Stormcast of Sigmar,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.
Warbeast, a voice whispered, but its power was dissipating, its hold on him broken by his assertion of fealty to the God-King.
He stood with head bowed, eyes closed, fists at his side, and waited for the quaking to subside. When all was still again he sought out his mask and fitted it to his helm. The click of it snapping into place was an affirmation of who he was and why he lived.
And he also knew exactly how to defeat the skaven.
Arkas Warbeast, Lord-Celestant of the Celestial Vindicators, strode over to his hammer and snatched it from a pool of melting snow. He turned back to the camp, filled with renewed purpose.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The morning passed quickly. After the distraction of the earthquake – which was disruptive but caused no serious damage – Theuderis spent most of it in deep conversation with Arkas. The Warbeast was filled with a vigour that enthused Theuderis. His short sojourn into the woods had proven very productive and the strategy they devised on his return gave the Knight Excelsior fresh hope. For the first time since he had crossed into the Realm of Beasts, Theuderis felt that he was moving in the right direction, after the many setbacks that had waylaid him previously.
In the main camp there were many more showing symptoms of the virulent infection. The first, the man called Bortis, was still alive, but only just. It was unlikely he would see nightfall. The sores, the watery breath and facial bleeding varied in severity from victim to victim, showing no favour to age or gender, but it was only a matter of time for those who had been caught by the pernicious attack. Theuderis took some heart that nearly half of the Ursungorans so far seemed unaffected, a few family groups that had not encountered the plague rats free from the taint thus far.
With a plan settled between them, Theuderis and Arkas sent word for their officers to make ready for a war council. Theuderis heard Glavius mention his name in passing and joined the Lord-Relictor where he was crouched in front of three dozen Ursungorans, more than half of them no older than ten years. He had removed his mask, revealing brown eyes that were warm and comforting, in marked contrast to his demeanour as Lord-Relictor.
‘Here he comes, the Lord Silverhand!’ Glavius declared. The children smiled, their joy somewhat incongruous given the morbid ornamentation of their entertainer. ‘King of the Glittering Breaches! Master of Castle Lyonaster! Lord-Celestant of the Knights Excelsior!’
‘What was your castle like, Lord Theuderis?’ asked a young woman, her infant swaddled close to her breast. Theuderis could see the child was pale, and there were flakes of dried blood on its chin. He looked at the mother’s face, suddenly lost for words.
‘Was it as large as the fortress at Raven Gorge?’
‘I do not know this fortress,’ Theuderis admitted. ‘I cannot make a comparison.’
‘It’s as tall as a mountain, and made of black bricks from the world-that-was,’ a little boy cheerfully informed him. ‘It used to have a whole tribe of ogors what lived there, but the ratmen killed them all before I was borned.’
‘There were no ogors at Castle Lyonaster, though we had to fight off armies of orruks several times.’
Theuderis looked at the families, their expectant faces streaked with dirt and blood, huddled in cloaks and blankets. So different from the citizens of the Glittering Breaches in appearance – so pale and thin and scared. But inside they were the same. They wanted the same thing, to live in peace, to raise their children and die of happy old age.
He lowered to one knee, still avoiding looking at the sickening child.
‘Does he have a name?’
‘Ljubo,’ the mother replied. ‘After his father and grandfather. They were fine trackers and huntsmen.’
‘A very good name,’ said Arkas, coming up beside Glavius. ‘I fought beside Krul Ljubo of the hussta, a very clever warrior and excellent marksman. If you are of his blood then I know where your ancestors’ cunning and woodscraft comes from.’
The woman smiled up at Arkas and Theuderis used the moment to rise, desperate to return to more certain ground, such as the discussion of lines of advance and flank protection. He could not get involved with these people. He could not pick favourites, it was not his place. They were all worth saving or none of them, just as those that served the Chaos Gods could not be pitied or saved, simply exterminated.
‘Are we ready, Lord Arkas?’ he asked, his tone stiff with formality, uncomfortable with the feelings stirred by his encounter with the Ursungorans. Why had he not kept his distance? Like battle, such things were best directed from afar.
‘Is everything well, Silverhand?’ Arkas asked quietly.
‘It will be noon in a short while,’ he replied. ‘We need to commence the final council.’
‘We cannot begin until Hastor and your Knights-Azyros have returned,’ said the Warbeast. Along with patrols on foot and Theuderis’ aerial forces, they had been scouring the glacier and the valley for signs of survivors. ‘I took the liberty of dispatching one of your Knights-Venator to summon them.’
‘He has flown swiftly,’ said Theuderis, pointing towards the sky above the Bear’s Pelt. A flight of Arkas’ Prosecutors descended at speed.
‘Wait,’ Arkas said as Theuderis moved towards where the other officers waited. ‘That is not Hastor.’
The Prosecutors dipped out of view briefly, disappearing behind the trees. It was not long before one of them reappeared, speeding towards the camp on azure wings. He landed a few paces from Arkas and bowed to his lord and then to Theuderis.
‘Venian, what tidings?’ asked the Warbeast.
‘Ursungorans, my lord, in the woods.’ The Prosecutor-Prime turned and pointed back the way he had come. ‘My retinue escorts them. Several score more, I would say. We did not see them on the ice.’
‘There are a few routes from the glacier directly into caves in the valley walls,’ said Theuderis. ‘Some of my warriors found concealed entrances on the lower slope.’
‘They will be here shortly, my lord,’ said Venian. ‘I do not know if they carry the skaven taint. Shall we let them approach?’
‘Several score?’ said Arkas. ‘More than a hundred, would you say?’
‘Yes, Lord Arkas. At least that many, from what I observed.’
‘Katiya will be with them,’ Arkas told Theuderis. ‘There is no other reason for so many to be in the same place.’
‘A leap of logic,’ warned the Knight Excelsior. ‘Do not surrender to false hope.’
‘Maybe not logic. Call it instinct, if you must. Katiya is with them, I am sure of it. We cannot hold the council yet. I will go with Venian to meet this group and decide where best to direct them.’
‘I think your Prosecutor-Prime is able to deal with...’ Theuderis fell quiet, understanding Arkas’ intent. ‘Very well, Lord Arkas. See if Katiya is with them, but return swiftly. Our march will be difficult and dangerous, and we need to be across the mountain before dusk.’
‘This won’t take long,’ Arkas assured him. His voice had dropped to a murmur.
When Arkas had departed, Glavius rose from where he had been entertaining the Ursungorans. Theuderis saw his eyes scanning the camp as he approached, though alert for what threat he could not tell.
‘You have a gift with words,’ said Theuderis. ‘And a way with infants I find at odds with your calling in Sigmar’s host.’
‘You are not the only Stormcast who was a father before being called to the Stormhosts, my lord,’ replied Glavius. ‘When I was mortal I was a bard-blade of the Wraithlands. We fought with words as much as weapons. In the Realm of Death a rite can be more dangerous than a sword or axe.’ He glanced at the Ursungorans. ‘They hide it well, but they are all afraid, child and adult alike. This is skaven-plague. Chaos-tainted.’
‘Indeed.’
Glavius fixed his helm back in place, concealing his features behind the grim skull-mask of his rank once more.
‘We have to purge them all,’ said the Lord-Relictor.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The walk down through the trees was the hardest Arkas had ever taken. It seemed to last longer than the forced march across Ursungorod. Despite Theuderis’ doubts, the Warbeast was certain of what he would find at the end. The gathering of so many refugees in one place had to be the work of Katiya, and he had seen her close to the fighting, close to the skaven-spawned plague mist.
Leaving deep footprints in the thawing mulch he headed straight downhill, his heart as heavy as his tread. As much as he wanted to avoid confronting the reality that awaited him, it was unavoidable, and delaying simply allowed his doubts to nag at him for longer.
It was obvious that Theuderis thought him blindly optimistic, but the Silverhand did not understand the mind of an Ursungoran, even one that had been reforged. Arkas hoped, in his soul, that he could fix the ills of the world, and he hoped that he could bring peace and prosperity to his lands and people. It was this hope that had sent him on the path to become the Uniter. Without hope he would have given up, crawled under the blankets with his dying mother. Without hope he would not have stood upon the broken walls in defiance of the skaven horde, despite the dire prediction of Radomira.
But it was not a hope that all would simply be made well. It was not a hope that everything would get better without pain and suffering, without sacrifice and effort. It was, he thought, simply a hope that the hardship served a purpose, that there was always a goal worth striving for. His hope for an end to the misery of Ursungorod did not preclude acceptance that the misery existed and had to be endured.
So he did not hope for anything as his long strides took him down the mountainside. He did not dread the coming reality either, because dread was just another form of denial. The survivors in the camp embodied this characteristic, accepting the reality of the plague without fear or favour, hoping that some might slip from its grasp, accepting the likelihood that most would not.
Venian flew down through a gap in the trees ahead and waited for the Lord-Celestant to reach him.
‘Another two hundred paces, my lord,’ said the Prosecutor-Prime, pointing. Between the trees Arkas could see figures in the distance, barely visible in the forest shadows.
‘Very well. Return to your retinue and take them back to the camp. We are mustering for the march. Knight Hastor will have your orders shortly.’
‘We are abandoning the search of the Bear’s Pelt, my lord?’ Venian looked up. ‘It is not long since the sunrise reached the valley.’
‘We have more pressing duties, Venian,’ Arkas told him, with conviction. ‘There is little point in rounding up a few more survivors if doing so grants victory to the skaven. We have a realmgate to take.’
‘Of course, my lord, I did not mean to disagree.’
Arkas said nothing else, dismissing the Prosecutor-Prime with a flick of the head. The Warbeast watched the approaching refugees, able to pick out their pale faces now, a picket of armed men and women leading the way, ever wary. Knots of others followed a few dozen paces behind.
The hunters saw Arkas and gravitated towards him, their expressions a peculiar mix of relief and anxiety. It was obvious they were pleased to see the Uniter, but their glances back towards the other Ursungorans told him without any words exactly what he needed to know.
He spied Ajfor amongst the rearguard. He beckoned and Katiya’s grandson approached quickly. There was a cut across his left eye, the infected wound weeping blood and less wholesome fluid. His eye was a black orb, his skin jaundiced.
‘Where is she?’ Arkas asked softly.
Ajfor looked back, scanning the other survivors. He pointed away to the left, at the largest following group.
‘She is...’ He choked on the words.
‘I know,’ Arkas said, laying a hand as gently as he could on the young man’s shoulder. He nodded uphill. ‘There is a camp not far away. Most are also afflicted. But there are fires and some shelter.’
Nodding, Ajfor broke away and continued upwards without looking back, the other hunters drifting after him with solemn looks at the Lord-Celestant, perhaps having overheard his conversation, perhaps simply guessing what had passed between them.
The Ursungorans parted as Arkas strode through the trees, all but making a path for him to find Katiya. She was being dragged on a bier of lashed wood, hide and rope. Some around her were also showing signs of infection but were strong enough still to walk, while many others were on stretchers, some with their faces covered, their bedrolls already shrouds.
Her hand fluttered from beneath a deer pelt blanket at his approach. Her wrinkled face was almost devoid of colour and her left eye was crusted shut with scabbed pustules.
‘Uniter...’ she said. Her voice was firm, though she was forced to take in a ragged breath after. Arkas winced as he heard the bubbling in her lungs. The bearers set down the bier and stepped away, granting them a little privacy.
‘Katiya.’ He knelt beside her and saw, perhaps properly for the first time, her thinning hair, the curve of cheek and jaw, the line of her nose. ‘You look like Radomira.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. Another rattle of inhalation. ‘A daughter in every generation. Her bloodline is strong.’
Arkas could not shake the sensation of familiarity, beyond simply recognising Katiya. Seeing her lying on the makeshift bed brought back such strong memories.
‘Do not give in to grief,’ wheezed Katiya, sensing what he was thinking even though his face was hidden.
‘No,’ he promised, nodding slowly. ‘Never grief.’
Still he could not fight back the hurt, the sense of injustice swelling inside at the sight of her so forlorn and weak. Perhaps it was simply the context, but Arkas could not ignore the resemblance, not just to Radomira but also to his mother.
‘It is time to tell... you something.’ Katiya coughed as she sat up. Arkas helped her, providing an arm for her to lever herself upright. He could smell the infection on her rank breath. ‘It is about your mother. About... Radomira and your... bloodline.’
‘The past is the past,’ said Arkas, echoing the traditional Ursungoran saying.
‘It is.’ Katiya did not smile but there was softness in her good eye. Sympathy, perhaps. The look was so uncannily like his mother’s last expression. Insight flashed.
‘Radomira... She was a relation?’
Katiya nodded.
‘My grandmother?’
‘No...’ More coughing prevented Katiya from continuing but Arkas already knew what she was going to say. He barely whispered the words.
‘My mother. She was my real mother.’
Katiya nodded through the spasms, her grip weak on his arm.
‘Then who...?’
‘Your sister,’ Katiya managed. She took several deep breaths and recovered a little. ‘Older by fifteen years. The man that was bonded with her acted as your father. You were... unexpected arrival. Radomira was sworn sagesayer, sundered from family, forbidden liaisons with... outsiders. Old, old past childbearing... it was thought.’
