Warbeast, p.27
Warbeast, page 27
‘Go!’ he commanded his warriors, dragging the word out of the depths of his mind, language almost forgotten. He thrust a finger towards the exposed realmgate. ‘Go!’
The Celestial Vindicators hesitated, unsure of what was happening. It was Doridun who reacted first, lifting his clarion to signal the charge. Dolmetis responded, turning to lead the attack into the crater left where the Ursun-spirit had erupted.
The ivory-clad warriors of Theuderis were spearing towards the verminlord, the Silverhand leading the charge from the back of his dracoth. Arkas set his sights on another target. From the causeway spilled the plague monks, yelling and screaming their praises as they launched themselves into the flank of the Silverhands’ attack. The leader stood at the gate still, surrounded by ranks of his armoured elite.
Letting the Ghurite magic flow through him, allowing the beast-power to push aside the celestial force that had created him, Arkas broke into a run. He took up his weapon two-handed as he charged, but as he leapt into the attack, hewing at the robed skaven with revitalised strength, he swung not a hammer, the symbol of Sigmar almighty, but a great axe.
The axe of his mother.
Rocks fell like meteors onto Stormcast and skaven alike, though it was the latter that suffered the greater casualties from the plummeting remnants of the mountain. Theuderis was not sure he would ever understand what had just happened. He had thought to rejuvenate Arkas’ flagging assault, but the consequences of unleashing the Warbeast’s full anger were far greater than anything he could have expected.
Despite the surprise manifestation of cosmic power, the battle was not yet won. The verminlord descended into the cavern, its presence spurring the skaven into apoplectic fury. Billowing spews of noxious magic engulfed the Stormcasts as they attempted to surround the greater daemon, seeping into their armour, choking and burning them inside the moulded sigmarite.
The counter-attack from the despicable temple was dragging more of Theuderis’ warriors away from the main thrust towards the greater daemon. There was nothing the Lord-Celestant could do to prevent his warriors defending themselves, but the consequence was a faltering assault, his force drawn into two battles.
For good or ill he had to remain committed to the course of action he had chosen. The Celestial Vindicators were heading for the realmgate. Arkas himself fought like fifty Stormcasts as he chopped his way into the ranks of the plague monks. The preservation of his force for its own sake was of no value. He had to destroy the verminlord or any attempt to protect the realmgate would be in jeopardy.
Felk was still stunned by the explosion of Ghurite energy that had rocked the mountain and torn the heart out of his city. His ears rang with the noise of the detonation and his vision was blurred by the unwelcome dawnlight slanting from where the peak of the mountain had once been.
The one that had summoned the beast was death given form, ripping his way into Felk’s followers like a claw tearing at unprotected flesh. Though the plague priest and his closest council stood behind the lines of spitevermin, he felt far from safe. Apparently Felk’s underlings did not feel the same.
‘Not lost-lost,’ squeaked Festik. He jabbed a claw down towards the dust cloud-swathed lower levels. Giants in turquoise armour were clambering into the ruin, obviously intent on the realmgate. ‘Attack-attack, from behind!’
‘Mighty Skixakoth leads us to victory,’ exclaimed Chittir, redirecting the Poxmaster’s attention to where the verminlord was slaying the Sigmar-chosen with wide sweeps and armour-piercing thrusts of its crackling spear.
‘Attack-attack!’ parroted Priest Kirrik. ‘Snap-snap like rat ogre jaws!’
Felk looked at them with contempt. The fang of Skixakoth trembled and burned in his chest, reminding him of the plan.
‘Fools,’ he hissed. ‘Treachery! Make peace with Skixakoth against me? Only one rules the Withering Canker. Praise Felk!’ He glanced at Skarth and nodded.
The fangleader cut the head from Kirrik with a single blow from his halberd. The other two plague priests turned on their betrayer with raised blades. Festik gurgled blood as Thriss struck from behind, emerging unseen from the ranks of spitevermin, weeping blade taking the priest across the throat. Felk deflected the attack of Chittir, his warp-infused body barely registering the pain as the rusted blade cut through his robes and caught in the flesh of his arm. He tore out the priest’s throat with a slash of sparking claws.
Stepping over the bodies, Felk squealed a command to his remaining underlings and then disappeared into the Great Shrine, heading for the tunnels in the lower levels. The spitevermin followed, trampling the bodies of the dead plague priests.
Thriss remained a little longer, watching as the plague monks under the sway of Felk melted away from the fighting. The war-leader that glowed with painful fire was getting closer. Tail trembling, Thriss dashed after his employer.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The beast-possessed Arkas hewed a bloody path through the remaining plague monks. The inexplicable departure of the plague priest and many of its followers left Theuderis with no distractions. Rallying his warriors with a shout, the Silverhand pressed on towards Skixakoth.
The verminlord wreaked carnage amongst the Stormcasts, its doom-wreathed weapon crackling and steaming as bolts of celestial energy shot skywards from dismembered warriors. The chosen of Sigmar did not fall lightly. Starsoul maces and thunderaxes boomed as they struck the greater daemon’s immaterial flesh. Flickers of celestial lightning trailed from warblades as they cut its unholy skin.
The skaven frothed around the periphery of the combat between Skixakoth and Theuderis’ warriors, sometimes bringing down a Silverhand from behind, more often cut down themselves by a backswing or trampled underfoot by the massive warriors. The verminlord cared nothing for its followers and the wide sweeps of its four-tined spear struck down more skaven than Knights Excelsior.
Into this melee burst Theuderis’ dracoth, snarling, forks of blue lightning springing from her open jaw. Skixakoth turned towards the Lord-Celestant, the shimmer of heavenly power creeping across its arcane armour.
Theuderis felt nothing when the murderous gaze of the greater daemon fell upon him. Neither fear nor triumph nor anger troubled his heart. The verminlord was just another problem to solve, another enigma to unravel. Victory depended upon finding the solution, nothing more.
Tyrathrax responded as though an extension of his body, leaping aside as the enormous spear of the verminlord lanced towards her rider. Theuderis’ sword caught the weapon behind its barbed head, the star-forged blade leaving a notch in the ensorcelled metal. The force of the clash almost knocked him from the dracoth, but he clutched the saddle horn and hung on while Tyrathrax leapt at Skixakoth, claws raking across its thigh.
The skaven drew back from the duel, fearful of the white warrior that dared face their demigod. Not so the Silverhands, who leapt to the attack with jubilant shouts, hammering and slashing with renewed determination.
‘For the glory of Sigmar!’ they chorused.
Its barbed tail lashing limbs and heads from its attackers, the verminlord snatched up a Liberator, encasing his head in its massive claw. Plague-magic churned, turning flesh to a molten slurry that dripped from the armour before a flare of celestial power carried the warrior’s spirit back to Sigmar.
Theuderis lunged with his runeblade, thrusting the tip into a gap in the daemon’s armour below its outstretched arm. Snarling curses, Skixakoth spun away, the haft of its spear crashing against Theuderis’ shoulder, unseating him and throwing him to the ground. The dracoth moved to put herself between her master and his foe.
Recovering, the verminlord loomed over beast and Lord-Celestant, hatred flowing from it like waves of heat. Ichor streamed from rents in its armour and its horns were cracked and broken, but in the depths of the helm, twin eyes of warp-fire pinned Theuderis in place.
On his back, the Lord-Celestant was defenceless.
Except for one manoeuvre. A sacrificial move.
The spear-points descended and Theuderis acted without hesitation, rolling underneath Tyrathrax. The tines of the daemonic weapon followed him, lancing into the head and shoulders of the dracoth, piercing armour, flesh and skull.
Theuderis continued his roll while Skixakoth tried to drag its spear free, emerging from beneath the collapsing dracoth. Using her crumpling body as a step he launched himself at the verminlord, slamming the point of his sword through the eye slit of its helm. Grabbing a stump of horn, he rode the greater daemon as it staggered back, drawing out his blade to ram it into the other eye, pushing with all of his strength until the crosspiece ground against the unearthly material of the verminlord’s helm.
The greater daemon folded into itself, its grip on the Mortal Realm severed. The physical form of the verminlord fell apart, becoming hundreds of rat corpses, mangy and boil-ridden, that melted into a viscous pool beneath Theuderis as he landed on the filth-covered ground.
Still victory was not certain. The Stormcasts were surrounded, their enemies beyond counting. The gleam of celestial energy in the depths reminded Theuderis of the mission.
‘Glavius!’ he bellowed. ‘Summon the Lord-Castellant!’
The Lord-Relictor held aloft his mortuary staff, chanting an invocation to the God-King. A stream of lightning leapt from the tip of his icon and then dissipated into the air. Nothing happened.
‘The warpstone corrupts everything, the Celestial Realm is blind to us,’ said the Lord-Relictor. ‘I cannot summon them.’
‘The realmgate, can you use its power?’ asked Theuderis.
‘It is too far,’ replied Glavius, looking towards the distant crater. ‘Unless...’
The Lord-Relictor again held up his bone-clad staff and called upon Sigmar. This time the bolt of energy did not launch skywards, but seared across the cavern, seeking the tip of the icon wielded by Arkas’ Knight-Vexillor, Dolmetis. The celestial power flashed like a beacon fire lit and then leapt again, forking madly as it earthed into the pillars of the realmgate.
The sickly glowing runes dimmed, their yellow-green light replaced by the azure blaze of heavenly power. Like a hurricane unwinding, the vortex of energy surrounding the gate became a near-blinding star. In the depths, the realmgate shuddered, the stone of its structure cracking, splinters falling away from its surface.
The realmgate burst with another detonation of power. Ignited by the celestial energy of Glavius, the cosmic portal shed the stone prison the duardin had laid upon it, turning the archway to shards and dust. In its place burned a white flame, tongues of fire licking across the stones and caressing the air. A pulse of energy snapped back along the route of the beacon-power, jumping from Dolmetis’ icon to the mortuary-relic of Glavius.
‘Sigmar!’ the Lord-Relictor bellowed, channelling the renewed power through his body, sending it as a surge of lightning that flared into the skies revealed by the collapse of the mountain.
In an instant, scores of lightning blasts flashed down in reply.
Theuderis saw a bright flash of golden light reflected against what was left of the cavern ceiling. He turned as horn blasts reverberated around the chamber of the shrine, announcing the arrival of Lord-Castellant Durathos.
Faced with the death of their god’s avatar and the drum of marching boots from the depths, the skaven faltered and scattered, bolting for whatever runs and holes they could find.
Ever mindful of his duty, Theuderis called his warriors to make for the realmgate to link with the Celestial Vindicators and other Knights Excelsior. Samat led the pursuit of the fleeing ratmen, but the craven creatures soon lost themselves in the mire of the undercity.
Theuderis looked down at the remains of Tyrathrax. There would be no miracle this time. The ease, the speed with which he had been ready to let her die nagged at him, as did his lack of emotion as the blood pooled amongst the decaying remnants of the verminlord. It was known that each Reforging affected a warrior profoundly – stripped away a layer of their humanity. Mortals were not meant to live forever and there was a price to pay for becoming a celestial being. The Reforging of Arkas had left him prone to the beast within.
As he turned away from the dissipating remains of his mount, Theuderis was not sure what he had become.
Epilogue
They found Arkas unconscious at the shrine gate after climbing and hauling their way through a veritable mountain of skaven dead. In his hand he still held an Ursungoran-style axe. The Warbeast woke as Theuderis rolled him onto his back. He reached up and removed his mask, sitting up to look around the cavern.
Snow was falling from the broken roof and he glanced up, surprised to see the clouds. Getting his bearings, he could see that the shrine hall was devoid of enemies. The only skaven left were the thousands of dead littering the ghetto of huts and hovels. Already teams of Knights Excelsior were heaping the verminous creatures onto pyres built from their polluted homes, the smoke thick and oily.
Warriors in white and blue were everywhere, though there was a knot of turquoise-armoured figures not far away. Theuderis extended a hand and Arkas allowed the other Lord-Celestant to help him to his feet.
‘Ursungorod belongs to the Knights Excelsior,’ he said. ‘A well-earned victory.’
‘Lord-Castellant Durathos,’ said the Silverhand, indicating the officer behind him. ‘He will be in charge of rebuilding the city here, and the garrison for the defence of the realmgate.’
‘Take good care of these lands,’ said Arkas. ‘Its people bled to keep a part of it free long enough for us to save it.’
‘I...’ Theuderis shook his head and dropped his voice, perhaps concerned to speak in front of Durathos. ‘I do not understand what happened.’
‘Something from the World Before,’ Arkas said quietly. ‘Manifested in the sea of Ghurite energy we called the Shadowgulf. A demigod, perhaps, or a god of a dead people. Trapped, tortured by Chaos. The skaven burrowed through it, enslaved part of it for their diabolical ceremonies, used it to pollute the magic. It tried to break free once before – that is what caused the eruptions on Skagoldt Ridge on the day of my birth. It found me, has been calling to me all of my life, looking to share its pain.’
‘It is gone now?’
‘Mostly.’ Arkas looked at the axe in his hand. ‘I can feel a little part of it remaining.’ He tapped his breastplate. ‘In here, where it’s always been. I can accept it now. The beast within me. The bear’s anger.’
The Silverhand accepted this with a silent nod.
‘What next? We await the command for the assault on the Lifegate?’ As he asked, the thought twisted in Arkas’ gut. Perhaps something of his reluctance showed on his face.
‘You have another plan?’ asked Theuderis.
‘Many skaven escaped,’ Arkas admitted. ‘Their chief priest amongst them. My people are dead. Others will build a new civilisation here in time. I am the last. I would hunt down the creature that destroyed the Ursungorans. But, that is not the will of Sigmar. We have a higher calling, to free not just one people but all.’
‘Sigmar is wiser than that,’ said Theuderis. ‘Some of us are constructors. Some of us... You are a conqueror. You are his Warbeast. He did not save you to raise castles and cities for him. He raised you to fight, to kill, to win. But, you do not need my permission, Arkas. You are Lord-Celestant of your Strike Chamber, commander of the Warbeasts. Your will is Sigmar’s will. The God-King means for you to rid him of these filthy skaven.’
‘Then with your leave, if not your permission,’ said Arkas, ‘I still have vengeance in my heart and the need to spill skaven blood. We each serve Sigmar in our own way.’
Arkas started down the causeway, but a call from Theuderis drew his attention back.
‘Lord Arkas! Kill them where you can, righteous is your vengeance. But heed your oaths to the God-King. We have a staging ground to seize the Lifegate, and the other routes to the Allpoints will be secured by the endeavours of other Stormhosts. When the call of the God-King comes, when we march on the Allpoints to destroy Archaon, be ready to answer.’
‘I’m always ready, Lord Theuderis!’ Arkas fitted his mask. ‘For the glory of Sigmar!’
About the Author
Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.
An extract from Fyreslayers.
The Fyreslayer screamed until his throat was raw and his chest heaved on empty lungs. He gulped down a breath, heaved forwards, but was restrained. Iron clamps around his arms and legs groaned. His seat rocked on triple-bolted floor brackets. The new rune ignited as it took, blazing brilliant gold that flooded his eyes with fire and the thick muscles of his chest with torment. His biceps spasmed, tensing and un-tensing with a fury.
He screamed as no duardin ever should – honestly, terribly, his cries cast back at him by metal and stone.
The walls didn’t care. They had heard and borne witness many times over ten thousand years. His ancestors had endured the same trials as he. Who was he to suffer so visibly under the gaze of their icons?
