Warbeast, p.24
Warbeast, page 24
The cavern trembled, bringing gravel and dust spraying down from the high ceiling. The throbbing in Felk’s chest intensified in time with the tremors, every pulse sending a shock of energy through his diseased frame.
‘Witness the power of Poxmaster Felk!’ he crowed, lifting up a claw that danced with warp power. His words seemed to take form, noxious breath spilling from his mouth as he spoke.
The impetus of the armoured warriors was faltering. Their leader, the giant with hammer and sword that never stopped, halted on the first step to the realmgate dais. Though his weapons continued to arc left and right with blasts of power, his gaze was clearly fixed on the opening portal.
‘All hail Felk!’
The Poxmaster quivered as his name issued from thousands of throats, accompanied by the din of gongs and bells. ‘Power to me!’
The realmgate called to him, trying to drag him towards it. He felt it in his chest, the fang of Skixakoth like a white-hot shard in his heart. Forks of power crawled across the stones of the portal and leapt across the gap. They rapidly grew faster and brighter. The flashes were mesmerising, each flicker drawing in Felk’s consciousness, trying to snatch his mind from his brain.
He howled in triumph and pain, and threw out his hand in a spasm, involuntarily letting loose another arc of warp power that speared across the cavern and struck the keystone of the realmgate. The detonation sent a shockwave rippling out over the occupants of the hall, throwing skaven and Sigmar-warriors to the ground. The blast of energy snuffed out the warp-lamps, leaving the chamber lit only by the crawling fires engulfing the realmgate.
With a thunderous crack, the gap between worlds was breached and the cosmic bridge opened. Shimmering sunlight tinged with arboreal green crept into the cavern, bringing with it a gust of wind carrying the smell of mouldering leaves and rotted flesh.
The view through the gate was not altogether clear, but shuffling shapes quickly resolved into more hooded plague monks, icons of the Greater Witherer held aloft, drums and gongs banging as they marched out of the coruscating aura that filled the portal’s frame.
‘Beloved am I!’ screeched Felk, his triumph overcoming the agonising gnaw of the fang impaled through his breastbone. ‘The ranks of my disciples swell!’
The fighting abated, the warriors of Sigmar halfway up the steps, Felk’s followers gratefully drawing back from their merciless weapons now that reinforcements had arrived.
Another shape loomed in the translucent energy of the gate, almost blotting out the light from beyond. Felk stumbled to one knee as the pain in his chest flared to unbearable levels, a scouring agony that burned through every organ and coursed along his bones and nerves. Death seemed certain. Vile dread welled up where sweet victory had resided moments before. Squinting against the brightness, the Poxmaster watched as something monstrous and holy pushed through the veil between realms.
Its pinkish flesh was protected by rust-edged plates of warp-forged iron and its rat-like face was guarded by an angular helm fashioned to accommodate the profusion of horns that curled about its head. It wore a thick black belt from which hung a massive tome – the Liber Cankorum, in the pages of which were held the secrets of the Miasmic Flux. In its hand it held a four-tined spear that trailed tendrils of power from the realmgate.
Verminlord.
The musk of fear was strong around Felk as he watched the greater daemon of his god stride onto the realmgate dais. The monster’s eyes were drawn immediately to the Poxmaster and he felt the fang in his chest throb powerfully.
‘Felk.’ The verminlord’s voice was a sinister whisper that carried with it the weight of a booming shout. ‘Poxmaster of the Withering Canker.’
‘Mighty Skixakoth, Corruptor of the Pure, Sagacity Incarnate, Bearer of the Sacred Text!’ The list of titles devolved into a rambling mash of syllables as Felk’s nerve failed him.
The verminlord thrust a scimitar-like claw at Felk. The fang hummed with magical power, wreathing the Poxmaster in a greenish vapour. The same issued from the mouth of Skixakoth as it spoke.
‘Did you think I would not miss it?’ hissed the verminlord. ‘Did you think I would let you freely bargain with my power? Steal my victory?’
‘No-no!’ wailed Felk, demeaning himself more by falling to his belly, though he could not drag his eyes from the verminlord. ‘For-for you, greatest of the great, Skixakoth Right-Hand. Open gate, destroy Whiteworld Above, slay tree-queen for glory of Skixakoth.’
The verminlord’s lips rippled with what might have been a snarl or a smile; it was impossible to tell. It turned its gaze on the armoured giants formed in a tight group on the steps before it.
‘Kill them,’ it snapped, casting a bolt of power from its spear.
Chapter Forty-Three
Arkas raised his hammer just in time to catch the warp blast on its head. Corrupting magic and celestial power sprayed like sparks. At the verminlord’s command the skaven were filled with renewed fervour and poured across the cavern towards the surrounded Stormcasts. Even the pitiful slaves picked up stones and wooden clubs and scampered after their betters.
The Warbeasts stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a solid ring, weapons presented to the foe. Arkas fixed his gaze on the verminlord, a terrible wrath building in his heart.
Skixakoth.
This monster had laid low Ursungorod, destroyed the resistance of Arka Bear-clad and enslaved the people of the mountains. More than that. The Lord-Celestant’s eyes moved to the fell grimoire upon the daemon’s belt, a spell book containing virulent curses and devastating plagues – the same that had slain his adoptive mother in her bed, and even now gnawed the life from Katiya and her kin.
The rage was almost unstoppable. Arkas barely felt the earth trembling, thinking it was his own limbs quaking with power as Ghurite magic surged up into his body from below. With it came pain, the agony of memory a physical sensation.
But it was not Arkas’ pain, Arkas’ memories that consumed him. He felt the torture of Ursungorod itself, the spirit of the land tormented and corrupted by the infiltration of the skaven and the lashing of Chaos power at its heart.
A single desire possessed him – to free the lands of their tyrant, to slay the verminlord.
But that was not his purpose here.
He thought of white snow and a cool breeze, birds aloft in the mountain sky, free from this turmoil, desperately trying to calm the beast that raged inside his chest as though in a cage.
He was not Arka Bear-clad, he was Arkas Warbeast. Stormcast. Lord-Celestant. Commander. Servant of Sigmar.
The Celestial Vindicator ran these thoughts over and over in his head as the noose of skaven tightened around his warriors. Through the ruddy veil that had descended on his vision he searched the surrounds, though he was not sure what he was seeking until he found it.
An island, of sorts. The base of a gigantic stalagmite that had been smashed aside as the skaven had dug for the realmgate, blocked on three sides by cracks freshly widened by the convulsing earth.
‘Reform! Withdraw on me!’
With a clash of weapons, the Stormcast ring turned into a spearpoint with Arkas at the tip. The dozens of Paladins flowed like liquid, parting to allow Arkas to pass through, heading for the stalagmite.
A mob of plague monks stood between them and their objective, their leader a plague priest with two crooked blades scratched with skaven runes that caught the light from the realmgate in strange ways.
The plague priest snapped a command, eyes full of madness and hate as Arkas and the Warbeasts plunged back down the steps in a long triangle of turquoise sigmarite and gleaming celestial energy that rippled down the levels like a flood of raw Azyrite power given form.
Arkas kicked as the skaven priest leapt at him. His boot connected with its chest. Thick, tattered robes absorbed some of the impact but still the blow sent the creature spinning back into its fellows, toppling two more. An instant later, Arkas was into the gap, sweeping his weapons left and right to carve the breach even wider.
He piled on, ignoring the blows that rang from his armour, cutting down all in front of him, trusting to his companions to do the same to any that he passed. Bone crunched underfoot and he pulled his feet free from grasping fingers and entwining rags, smashing his hammer through another handful of foes. Striding on, he angled through the small gap between two precipitous chasms, less than ten paces wide, and turned as he set foot on the stalagmite.
The Warbeasts coursed around him, spinning in turn to take up fresh positions defending the natural island while their fellows moved past.
They were just settling into these new positions when the verminlord attacked.
The greater daemon leapt across the gorge to the left, easily covering the gap, its hooves striking sparks from the stone as it landed. The miasma of decay that followed it billowed across the Stormcasts, almost blotting out the light.
Arkas reacted without thought. He threw himself between the charging verminlord and his warriors, hammer and runeblade ready. With supernatural speed, Skixakoth twisted, bringing the long haft of its spear around to block Arkas’ sword, the hammer crackling through the fog where the verminlord had been a heartbeat earlier.
A massive fist crashed against the back of the Lord-Celestant’s head. He moved with the blow, completing a full forward roll to negate most of the impact. A hoof caught him in the midriff as he turned, knocking him back.
He had his back to the crevasse. Ahead, the plague monks screamed and shrieked their dedications to the Great Horned One as they launched their attack against the Stormcasts, the first dozen ratmen cut down by hammers, maces and glaives, the following skaven throwing themselves forwards undeterred.
That was all Arkas had time to glimpse before he had to step to the right, bringing up his hammer to deflect the spearhead of Skixakoth.
‘I know you...’ The greater daemon’s brow creased into deep furrows. ‘A strangely familiar smell.’
Arkas said nothing. He launched himself at the daemon, aiming his runeblade for its midriff. Its spear deflected the attack, but not the hammer-blow that followed, smashing into the creature’s shoulder. It staggered, snarling and spitting.
A spear thrust forced Arkas to retreat several steps, until he could feel the yawning precipice behind him. The verminlord leered, displaying dagger-like fangs.
‘I have not killed you before, have I, little Sigmar-thing?’ It splayed the talons of its free claw, warp lightning cracking between them. ‘No, that is not it. They were iron-clad and you are not.’
Arkas dodged aside to avoid the blast of warp lightning, but in doing so moved into the range of the verminlord’s spear. It pierced the side of his chest, below the right shoulder, two rusted tines shredding sigmarite and flesh.
Arkas cried out as corrupting magic poured into the wound, splitting bones and shredding sinew. He tore himself away from the spear and stumbled, thick blood gushing from the grievous injury.
‘I will see you soon in Azyr!’ cackled Skixakoth, driving its fist into Arkas’ masked face.
The blow hurled him back. He fell hard and scrabbled for purchase, but after an agonising moment Arkas discovered there was no ground beneath him.
He dropped into the chasm. His last sight before darkness engulfed everything was of the verminlord looking down over the edge of the precipice, a halo of warp-light surrounding its horned face.
Arkas hit an outcrop and bounced heavily, spinning laterally. He threw out a hand to grasp something, anything projecting from the side, but his fingers gripped only empty air.
He could feel waves of Ghurite energy buffeting him like updraughts of air. Arkas let the magic lap around him, soothing his troubled thoughts, comforting him like a friend. A brotherly embrace.
The light from the cavern of the realmgate was just a faint line far, far above when he hit the bottom of the ravine.
The agony was thankfully short-lived, the Stormcast’s bones shattered, organs pulverised, flesh pierced and gashed by buckled sigmarite plates. He felt it for just a few heartbeats, until that heart gave out and the celestial power in the core of his being exploded. It disintegrated what was left of Arkas Warbeast and as a bolt of pure energy shot up into the heavens.
Chapter Forty-Four
The battle for Kurzengor had eached an impasse. Theuderis and his Paladins had reunited with the Angelos Conclave and the rest of his warriors. They held three routes down to the undercity – the slave pit they had first seized, a tunnel network beneath a crumbling temple and a sinkhole that had collapsed in one of the gardens of a sprawling palace.
Against the warriors and weapons of the Chaos tribes these positions were virtually impregnable. The three forces were arrayed in a triangle so that not one of them could be surrounded without the enemy being caught with their backs to another Stormcast enclave. Justicars and Prosecutors raked celestial missiles into any foe that approached too close, but were content to let them flee beyond range when their spirit broke. Those that dared and survived this barrage of arrows, bolts and javelins were confronted by a shield wall of Liberators, who received the brunt of the initial assaults and then peeled apart by retinue to allow the Paladins within each armoured ring to counter-attack.
Several times this strength had been tested and the streets and plazas of Kurzengor were thronged with corpses, the bloody remnants of corrupted humans waist-deep in places. The rooftops, courtyards and alleys were similarly littered with the dead. It had started to snow again and streams of crimson pooled from gutters and downpipes, staining the fresh fall.
Thousands of the Chaos-tainted had been slain but not without losses to the Knights Excelsior. Theuderis’ Paladins in particular had paid heavily for their presumptuous thrust into the city, and more than a third of their number had already been returned to Sigmar.
For all their solidity, the three forces were mutually dependant. If Theuderis led one into the depths to relieve Arkas then the remaining two would be surrounded. It was this dilemma that Lord-Relictor Glavius raised with Theuderis, as the two stood on a mansion roof above the wall that girded the slave-pit. From here they could see almost the entire circumference of the defences, and across to the other forces in the neighbouring areas.
A swathe of the city was on fire, torched by the Chaos marauders in the hope that the smoke and flames would drive out the interlopers. The swirling winds had thwarted that plan and the few dozen warriors daring enough to sneak through the fume clouds had been easily picked off by Trajos and his Judicators.
‘We should already be on the heels of Arkas, my lord,’ said Glavius. ‘We do not know how far into the depths we must descend.’
‘He knew the plan and was willing to accept the risk of his part in it,’ Theuderis replied. ‘Without a secure base any movement into the undercity will likely splinter and fail.’
‘That is true.’ Glavius looked over his shoulder towards the expanse of the slave pit. ‘Even so, a degree of rapidity would not go amiss. Our route is uncertain.’
‘You do not have to labour the point, Glavius.’ Theuderis gestured in a wide arc, encompassing the other two Stormcast enclaves. ‘I planned for two possible approaches to the next phase of the attack. The first is to launch a three-pronged assault, each battalion collapsing in behind its Redeemer Conclaves to make steady advances into the deeps. Alternatively, we can bring the entire host to a single ingress and make one concerted push for the realmgate.’
‘You speak as though you have already decided which is the better,’ said Glavius. ‘But perhaps are not yet ready to commit.’
‘I have weighed the risks and benefits of each course, and there is little to choose between them as far as chances of success or failure go,’ admitted Theuderis. ‘To come together risks attack and disruption on the surface but guarantees a more cohesive assault below. To make three separate invasions shares the risk, negating the dangers of attack from the tribesmen but leaving us separated against the skaven.’
‘Which would be the quicker?’ asked the Lord-Relictor.
‘A speedy move to defeat is pointless against a more measured advance to victory.’
Theuderis could sense his companion’s frustration but he would not be cajoled into a hasty decision. He had only half the force with which he had entered Ursungorod. Though he would not shirk from sacrificing the other half if it brought victory, a hurried venture into uncertain terrain against an uncounted, unknown enemy was not his idea of a sound strategy.
‘Lord...’
The tone of Glavius’ voice rather than the word drew Theuderis’ attention straight to the slave-pit. Several retinues of his Prosecutors were hurling their missiles into the depths while the Decimators and Protectors stationed at the gantries and scaffolding withdrew, moving into more defensive postures.
Samat was a streak above, flashing down towards the Lord-Celestant, but whatever warning he thought to bring was unnecessary. Moments later Theuderis saw for himself the nature of the threat emerging from below.
Towering above the Stormcasts, a verminlord burst out of the pit, spearing a Decimator on the blades of its polearm. Missiles converged on the greater daemon, sparking and splashing from its unnatural form. In its wake a wave of robed skaven boiled out of the hole like froth overrunning a cup, streaming after their god’s avatar as it slashed the head from another Knight Excelsior.
Samat descended, wings trailing spirals of celestial energy that melted the falling snow.
‘We hold,’ Theuderis barked. ‘Take word to the other battalions to unite and make fast where they can. We will delay the foe as long as possible.’
‘What of you, my lord?’ asked the Knight-Azyros.
‘I will make my stand here.’
Samat nodded and sped away, becoming a blur against the clouds. Theuderis took a step towards the stairs down from the roof but a hand on his arm stopped him.
