Dark storm gathering, p.31
Dark Storm Gathering, page 31
Artheris’s hate grew with every blow of the spear. She knew the danger. Soon she would lose herself entirely. Even as her anger lent her strength, it sapped her soul like warpstone. She was becoming a creature of madness, a force of nature, locked into a magical state from which there could be no escape.
She cried spells aloud, no longer recognising her words. If she was ordained to die, her soul was content. The only goal was the destruction of the creature before her.
But the Lord of Change was strong, as strong as the bones of the world. It screamed its defiance, marshalling the vast forces of sorcery with a dreadful potency. Purple-tinged gales pushed Artheris back. Livid orange streaks whipped across her face. Wailing amethyst spectres dragged her down, biting at her neck and shoulders. It was as if the realm of Chaos had been dragged into reality. They fought both within the world of mortals and in the boiling domain of magic.
Artheris beat its attacks off furiously, swinging the shining spear with abandon. Points of light like diamonds showered from its tip, swarming at the daemon with deadly intent. They burst into life when they touched its sorcerous hide, cracking the scales and leaking a painful blaze of blinding light.
The Lord of Change lurched downwards, plagued by the biting, burning beads of magic. It took its staff in both hands and barked a single spell. A sheet of amber flame covered its entire body, immolating it in a wall of Chaotic fire. The diamonds dissolved, falling to earth as smoking embers.
The daemon directed the fire at Artheris. The amber energy swept towards her, tearing through the air, leaving a trail of thick poisonous smoke behind. She was engulfed, saturated in flame, covered in suffocating, choking fire. At last, she began to feel her powers ebb. She fought back desperately, fighting off the streaks of fire and magic, heedless of the lashing pain coursing through her body. The spear-tip flashed, slicing through the clouds of dark sorcery, rending it into tattered curtains of malign force.
At last, the flames were banished. With a howl of effort, feeling her self begin to slip away, Artheris flung the last of the clinging tongues of amber fire to earth. She raised her spear with effort. Its blade still shone with a vivid glow, but its blazing light had been dimmed.
Triumphantly, the Lord of Change rose up to confront her. Its own staff roared with sorcery, a cacophony of warped and mutating colours. It stretched its arms towards her, the fingers of its left hand clutching at her. Artheris beat it off, swiping desperately with the spear.
Her efforts were futile. Sensing victory, the Lord of Change dragged her into a bizarre embrace. It folded its arms around her struggling body, enclosing her in a cocoon of nauseating, draining magic. The spear fell to the earth, slipping from her exhausted hands.
Artheris felt her awareness begin to slip away. Dark magic crept beneath her wards of protection. A deadly weariness assailed her. The gleaming eyes of the daemon filled her vision. The beak opened with a smile of malice. The stench was overpowering, and her remaining vision blurred.
Broken, exhausted, Artheris resisted only weakly. The daemon folded her gently to its breast. She dimly felt her self begin to drain into its. With a final lurch of regret, her fragile awareness saw her soul wrenched from her body and pass into the feathered chest of the Lord of Change. Then she knew no more, and her body plunged downwards, drifting in the wind like ashes from a fire.
Morgil felt a sudden sense of loss. He looked up into the sky. With horror, he saw the Lord of Change hanging alone in the heavens. There was no sign of Artheris. The daemon let out a howl of triumph, and its vast wings stretched out over the battlefield. Its staff shimmered with vivid colour, and its flesh crawled with ever-changing hues. It was magnificent, terrible, awesome.
Despite all his training, all his long experience, Morgil felt hope ebb from him. The daemon would kill them all. None could hope to stand against such a monster. He let his axe fall by his side, stunned for a moment into hopelessness. The hosts of Chaos shouted with fresh vigour.
The daemon swooped to earth, landing heavily beside the crater where it had been summoned. It looked over the entire scene, its bird-like face lit with a self-satisfied malignance. All around, men and elves were breaking into retreat. Morgil waited for the onslaught. He would not run. To die facing such a foe was no dishonour.
But then, something happened. Instead of raising its staff, the daemon let it slip from his grasp. It bent nearly double, clutching its scrawny chest, scratching at the scaled surface. It rose into the air again, frantically flapping its huge many-coloured wings as if trying to escape some awful pain within itself. The dreadful eyes stared wildly. Gouts of crystal flame began to shoot from its body, blasting apart the glinting daemonic hide.
Its chest rippled and heaved. Something was trying to burst out from within. It opened its mouth wide, and a vast lolling tongue curled hopelessly into the night. Even Morgil could sense the raw magic leaking from its growing wounds. It was spilling into the world like water. The daemon writhed in agony. Its flight became erratic, and it fell earthwards once more. A strangled wail of pure anguish cut through the tumult of battle, echoing eerily from the hillside around.
The Lord of Change shuddered, and its limbs jerked wildly. Its chest burst open, and streams of pure magic sprung out, flickering, spitting and curling. The daemon raised its arms as if in supplication, its ravaged body rigid in a paroxysm of agony. For a few, heart-stopping moments, it remained rigid, straining every diabolical sinew against the force emerging from within.
Then came a cracking boom. The Lord of Change was ripped apart, its body blasted away like chaff in the wind. A blaze of blinding light lit the battlefield from hillside to hillside. A roaring wind followed, howling from where the creature of Tzeentch had hovered, knocking aside any who were in its path. The earth reeled, and fire surged from the cracked edges of the crater once more. An unearthly howl swirled around, gradually dying away into a lingering whine. The wind subsided. Only the night remained.
In the very centre of the inferno, the heart of where the storm had been, a light still hovered. Morgil gazed up at it, his breath shallow and heart pumping. Gradually, gracefully, the light transformed into a pearlescent orb. It glinted gently in the moonlight, and floated to the ground.
Morgil raced over to where it was landing, heedless of those around him, watching in wonder as the sphere continued to grow. Its surface was soft and diffuse. There was something enclosed within. As it gently came to rest on the pitted battlefield, Morgil came to meet it. Drawn by the same sense, Swordmasters had come too, surrounding the magical orb and defending it with a desperate ferocity. The pearly essence flickered and drifted into nothingness. Artheris lay within, looking as transparent and frail as an infant. Her robes were of purest white once more. She lifted her head weakly. When she saw Morgil, a faint smile broke across her delicate features.
‘White Lion,’ she said, with pleasure.
Morgil raced to her side, cradling her ethereal form in his arms. She felt as light as air.
‘You have banished the daemon,’ he said, gazing at her in wonder.
Artheris nodded.
‘The greater evil is gone,’ she whispered. ‘Tell the others to finish the task. There is much to do. Chaos must not have its victory this day.’
Morgil looked up. In the east, the horizon was turning grey. The faintest sliver of sunrise marked the distant peaks.
Dawn had come again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alexander looked over the smoking battlefield. Dieter and Annika were with him, though the knight was barely conscious. The sun was high in the sky, and the last of the braziers had been extinguished. Blackened metal husks littered the landscape. Bodies lay in piles in every direction. The great crater over the altar chamber now looked cold, mournful and grey.
Sporadic fighting still raged on the lower slopes of the hillsides around. However, with the destruction of the Lord of Change, the heart had gone out of the Chaos forces. Against all hope, the Chosen and his warriors had withdrawn. The Swordmasters had been brutally efficient and still fought tirelessly. The Reiksguard knights had been similarly doughty. Despite all that, Alexander still couldn’t shake a feeling of dread. The Chosen had been unmatched on the field. It was not in the nature of a Chaos champion to retreat. What did it mean? Once again, Alexander was reminded of the reputation of Tzeentch. After so much bloodshed, such a dearly-fought victory, were they all being manipulated?
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. Surely not. The banishment of the Lord of Change was a great victory. That explained the Chosen’s withdrawal. The champion had seen that the tide of battle had turned. And yet, the ease with which the monster had bested them all, had flung them aside like dolls, nagged at the wizard. Alexander found the last contemptuous glance from the monster’s ruined, warped visor etched on his memory. Though the idea filled him with horror, he felt sure he would see it again. In the grey morning air, he shivered slightly.
Alexander looked back over the valley. A horseman was approaching. It was the Reiksguard commander. With Artheris’s removal from the battle, Stern had assumed command of the allied forces, and had been riding hard all morning to keep the exhausted army together and order the remaining tasks. Now he came towards Alexander. The Bright wizard rose to greet him painfully. His body felt prematurely aged, and he had a bad feeling the effects of that dark elf sorcerer would last for some time. Annika and Dieter did likewise. Stern dismounted and walked up to them. He saluted wearily, and motioned for them to sit.
‘Greetings,’ Stern said. ‘We didn’t expect to find any Imperial forces here. My men told me you fought well.’
Alexander grimaced. The battle had been a wretched slaughter, and he could take no pride in it. Annika nodded politely to the commander.
‘Your arrival was lucky, captain,’ she said. ‘How did you know where to come?’
Stern smiled wryly.
‘We didn’t,’ he said. ‘Or at least I didn’t. We were led by one of the elven kind. She sensed the monster, and brought us here.’
He looked across the scene of ruination thoughtfully.
‘And there is the providence of Sigmar, of course,’ he added. ‘We have been blessed.’
He turned back to the group.
‘But I didn’t ride to find you to pass the time of day,’ Stern said. ‘The commander of the Chaos army has escaped. I’m told you fought him. There’s no sign of him or his retinue. Though the men are tired, we must find him.’
Dieter looked to the ground, ashamed. Annika nodded.
‘Yes, we fought him,’ she said, though without much conviction. ‘All three of us were not enough to even wound him. We were staring at death when the daemon was destroyed. The light blinded all of us. When my senses returned, he was gone.’
Stern nodded sagely.
‘So it is with the corrupted. They have no stomach for the fight once their sorcery is dismissed. In the face of honest steel and faith, there is no answer.’
Alexander snorted derisively.
‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked. ‘This was a Chosen of Tzeentch, a master of fates. Even with the daemon gone, he could still have rallied his army. He was a foe beyond any of us, perhaps even the elves.’
Stern looked at him sceptically.
‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘But I can only report what I see. I shall tell Lord Heinrich that the foe has been driven into the wilds. When we can, a pursuit will be arranged. Once all is done, we’ll ride north. Heinrich’s lands are not far.’
‘We know,’ said Alexander, dryly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be glad of the reinforcements. He’s a welcoming sort.’
Stern ignored the sarcasm, and looked back along the hillside. His gaze rested on a man standing alone some distance away. He was resting on his sword grip, staring passively out at the horizon.
‘Who’s that?’ he said. ‘One of Heinrich’s men?’
Annika shook her head.
‘His name’s Schulmann,’ she said. ‘I’d leave him alone for the moment. He owes allegiance neither to Heinrich nor to us. I’m guessing he has a few decisions to make.’
Stern looked at her doubtfully, but did not protest. There was too much else to do to worry about a single warrior.
‘Very well,’ the commander said. ‘I’ll summon you when we’re due to ride.’
He saluted and returned to his horse. Alexander watched him leave dispassionately.
‘What do you plan to do now?’ the wizard asked Annika.
‘I’ll travel to Castle Heinrich with the army,’ she said, glancing at Dieter’s slumped body. The knight made no response. His pale face spoke of exhaustion and failure. ‘As will he. This is only the start of it. More invaders will come, and we need to be ready. Surely Heinrich will listen to us over Grauenburg now. He has to.’
Alexander shrugged.
‘Maybe. In any case, I should come with you. There’s no point in my heading back to Altdorf now. I’d only be assigned somewhere else on the front. Now that the war is upon us, I should perhaps try and live up to the Griffon badge I wear.’
Annika smiled wanly.
‘You’ve done that, Bright wizard.’
Alexander looked at his hands. They were scored with fresh wounds. He didn’t feel victorious.
‘Don’t flatter me,’ he said sourly. ‘We’ve only just begun.’
The wizard sighed, and gazed grimly over the battlefield once more.
‘Of course, what I really want to know is where that elf ended up,’ he said dryly. ‘I miss his sense of humour.’
Morgil sat in the low chair, feeling his body slowly recover its strength. Weak sunlight lit the walls of the tent. On her low bed, Artheris stirred fitfully. After a few moments, her eyes flickered open. With effort, she raised her head.
‘Morgil,’ she said, her voice unsteady.
The White Lion rose and knelt by her.
‘My lady,’ he said quietly, placing his hand on hers. ‘You need to rest. Please do not move.’
Artheris looked around the tent, seemingly confused. Then, as if her memory was returning, her face contorted with pain. Wincing, she let her head fall back.
‘I remember it now,’ she said, slowly. ‘My slumber has been deep, but not enough to forget.’
Morgil gazed down at her, brow furrowed with concern.
‘We do not have to speak of it,’ he said.
Artheris smiled weakly through her pain. A faint colour had returned to her cheeks, but she still looked fragile. Her hand was as light as air in his.
‘I will not,’ she said. ‘Suffice it to say that the Lord of Change succumbed to his own sorcery. He looked to absorb a force he could not contain. As I have ever found, the appearance of weakness is a powerful tool.’
She looked up at him.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked.
Morgil nodded.
‘I did what I had to,’ he said flatly. ‘It brought no pleasure. I should have heeded your words.’
Artheris raised an eyebrow.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But you will always go your own way. Your spirit is wayward, and it is Asuryan’s gift to you. You cannot change, any more than I can.’
Morgil bowed his head. If he had ever been proud of his fiery nature, he was no longer.
‘When you’re stronger, we need to speak,’ he said. ‘The druchii assassin said things which have been preying on my mind. You should hear her words.’
Artheris nodded, but her eyelids were drooping. She was drifting back into sleep.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘We’ll discuss these things when we may. But now, take some consolation in this victory. It was not certain. In such things we may find hope.’
As she uttered the final words, she slipped smoothly into sleep once more. Morgil placed her hand lightly on the coverlet and withdrew to his chair once more. Hope was far from his mind. He gazed up at the pale fabric of the tent, hoping to find some solace in the archmage’s speech. None came. Instead, the image of burning fields returned to his mind’s eye. He saw ranks of dark warriors, marching across Chrace, bringing ruin in their wake. A bloodied mouth, laughing with scorn even in death, mocked him.
Morgil screwed his eyes shut, willing the visions to disappear. But they remained, persistent, dark and troubling.
Jhar’zadris stood on the ridge, watching the columns of smoke rise from the valley beyond. His armour was black. All life had left it, and he looked like a massive statue of adamant. Beside him, Lord Grauenburg stood looking at the same thing. Below them, the surviving Chaos warriors stood silently, waiting for fresh orders. For a long time, neither Grauenburg nor the Chosen spoke. Eventually, the lord sighed regretfully.
‘The elf witch was not foreseen,’ he said, sourly. ‘There are few in all the world who could have done what she did.’
Jhar’zadris regarded the human coldly.
‘Not foreseen by you, maybe,’ Jhar’zadris said, his voice rasping through his warped visor. ‘My master sees all things. The future is not closed to him as it is to us.’
Grauenburg gave him a scornful look.
‘Are you saying this was ordained?’ he sneered. ‘I didn’t expect excuses from you. Our plans lie in tatters. We’re both in danger.’
Jhar’zadris found himself tiring of the human’s insolence. The Chosen had killed subordinates for less. Only his explicit orders prevented him from slamming the warhammer into Grauenburg’s back. For some reason, Tchar’zanek wanted him alive.
‘Have more faith,’ Jhar’zadris said curtly. ‘It is the will of our master that I survive. The important task is that of the Raven Host. I am here, within the Empire. The foolish among our enemies will presume me dead. This is of far greater importance than the summoning of daemons. When all is accomplished, the entire Old World will be a haunt of Chaos, and Lords of Change will roost in every temple in the realm.’
