Scourge of fate, p.10
Scourge of Fate, page 10
‘Our king,’ Caradoc echoed. ‘You have not yet taken your vows, pilgrim. Do not use the Exalted Grand Marshal’s title for your own vanity.’
‘Nevertheless, what I say is true,’ Vanik responded. ‘Why are you impeding me?’
‘A part of me wishes to cut your head from your shoulders, boy,’ Caradoc growled, edging his mount closer. ‘Maybe one day the True Gods will so bless me, but for now I play the role of simple messenger. My lord Arken, Seventh Marshal, brings you an offer. He has heard of your recent quests, and your rivalry with the pilgrim Blackhand. In his wisdom, he offers you this – kneel before him, and swear fealty to the Seventh Circle, and you will receive the sigil of Archaon.’
Vanik’s surprise made him hesitate, but when he spoke again he kept the uncertainty from his voice. He had long ago learned that the only way to treat with the Varanguard was by refusing to show any weakness.
‘Your lord would have me abandon the Fifth Circle for his own?’
‘He would,’ Sir Caradoc replied. ‘And it is not an offer he will make again.’
‘He would turn me into a traitor? A knight without honour?’
‘He would save your life,’ Caradoc said. ‘You do realise the Blackhand has passed through this circle already? He is ahead of you. And in slaying Albermarl, he slays you too.’
‘Did he turn you down as well?’ Vanik countered.
‘He did not receive our offer.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is not my place to question my lord Arken’s will. Nor is it yours. You may accept, or you may decline.’
‘He seeks to turn me against the Fifth Circle, but sends a bloodstained warrior to lead the negotiations?’
‘Do not try to test me, boy,’ Caradoc snarled. ‘My brother-knights and I were butchering mortals and daemons alike for the glory of the Varanspire long before whatever pathetic spawn-creature you call a mother gave birth to you. Insult me again and I will carve you and your pitiful retinue to pieces, regardless of my lord’s will.’
‘My point stands,’ Vanik replied, forcing himself to smile at the Varanguard champion. ‘Why would I wish to serve your lord over Neveroth?’
‘He has many uses for many tools, boy. Neveroth is a wasteful master. He will not care for your deeds or glories, only that you serve his every whim. You are less a Knight of Ruin than a slave.’
‘And the master of the Bane Sons is somehow different?’
‘Lord Arken properly rewards those knights who prove themselves to him. The Bane Sons are a warrior brotherhood. We honour the Three-Eyed King and the Eightfold Path through victory. You will find none of the scheming and false plotting that infects the likes of the Fifth.’
‘I doubt that,’ Vanik replied. ‘And even if it were true, if you are such a band of brothers why would you welcome me into your midst, if I were to break my bonds with the Fifth and sunder my own honour?’
‘Serve Lord Arken and the Seventh, and all are welcome.’
‘Your words ring false, Sir Caradoc,’ Vanik said. ‘I know not why you have impeded me here with this offer, but it reeks of the falsehood and manipulation you claim to despise. I will have no part in whatever plan is being hatched by you or your masters.’
‘You are misguided,’ Caradoc said. ‘So you are well suited to being a Scourge of Fate.’
‘Better that than a knight without his own honour. I will slay the mortal castellan, and I will slay the Blackhand if need be. When next you see me, I will be a knight of the Fifth.’
‘Tread carefully then, pilgrim,’ Sir Caradoc growled. ‘Until we meet again.’
‘As the Eightstar wills it,’ Vanik replied. Caradoc seemed to regard him for a little longer. Then, with a grunt, he dragged his mount to one side, the other Varanguard behind him doing likewise, opening the road for them once again.
Vanik rode on.
They passed again through the wastes. It took a day and a night to return to Jevcha’s encampment, at least insomuch as the duelling, broken constellations and dark lights above the Varanspire could be defined by night and day.
The Darkoath queen had kept her promise to Vanik. The camp remained encircling the old shrine-ruin, the cooking fires of its inhabitants pluming lazily away into the red-lit evening sky. The hounds announced their return once more. Vanik ordered his war chiefs to assemble immediately, ignoring the weariness in his bones. It had been a long, hard ride compared to the journey to the spire, longer and harder than seemingly even he had realised.
‘It was over a week,’ Jevcha told him as he dismounted and passed Tzatzo’s reins to her. ‘Some of the others wanted to leave.’
‘They thought me slain,’ Vanik replied, a statement rather than a question. Jevcha shrugged.
‘None would dare say that in front of me.’
‘But their thoughts are clear enough to see,’ Vanik responded. ‘Who?’
‘Gulgrak, Moll, Svarbald.’
‘The usual then,’ Vanik said.
‘They are just battle-hungry,’ Jevcha said. ‘The wastes are no place to keep an army, not permanently.’
‘Then they will rejoice,’ Vanik said, stalking inside the ruins of the old hilltop temple. ‘Because I am about to lead them to the slaughter.’
The chiefs assembled, five besides Jevcha, the leaders of the seven disparate warrior-bands that made up Vanik’s core war party. They stood amidst the weed-clogged stones of the broken shrine, muttering among themselves until Vanik strode from the remains of the vestry.
They took the knee without hesitating. He bade them rise, his gaze lingering on Gulgrak, Moll and Svarbald. They had the good sense not to meet his eye.
‘I am returned,’ he said eventually. ‘And I come bearing good news. Your days of idleness are over.’
‘Your pilgrimage is at an end, sire?’ Svarbald, the big former pirate, asked.
‘No,’ Vanik replied. ‘It is not. By the decree of the Varanspire’s Fifth Marshal, Lord Neveroth, I am to bring him the head of a mortal lackey named Albermarl, before Skoren Blackhand does the same. Only once that quest is completed will I have been deemed worthy enough to complete the Black Pilgrimage.’
There were murmurs amongst the assembled chiefs. They were simple fighters for the most part, pelt-clad champions from the harshest corners of the Mortal Realms. Their type made up the fodder of countless Chaos legions. None bar Jevcha had the charisma or foresight to lead anything more than a few hundred warriors at most. Still, when their own parties were brought together – Splintered Coast raiders, Faug’s Red Steppe horsemen, Dravga’s corsairs or the Eightguard – they formed a warband of almost five hundred favour-hungry, battle-hardened warriors. Vanik had fought alongside them for years. Regardless of their current restlessness, he knew they would not fail him.
‘Albermarl is master of one of the so-called Free Cities in Chamon, Helmgard. We will go there, burn it, and I will cut him to pieces and take his skull as a trophy for the Varanspire.’
The murmuring rose, the approval now obvious throughout the assembly. Only Jevcha’s expression betrayed apprehension.
‘I know of Helmgard. The Darkoath chieftain Morvis was amongst a great host that besieged it. They could not storm it, despite trying for many months. It is duardin-built.’
‘You are right,’ Vanik said. ‘Five hundred of us, no matter how blessed, will not be able to storm it. But I will not be journeying to Chamon with only this war party. The time has come to send out the call. The Gods demand obedience, and will reward those who show it.’
‘We are to muster a legion?’ Svarbald asked, his voice hopeful.
‘Yes. Time presses, but I wish to bring as many warbands to our banner as I can before we march on Helmgard. This is no raid into the Eight Realms. We seek battle, and will slaughter all before us. That alone should rally the chosen to our standards.’
‘Olhandris and his kindred will come, if my riders can find them before we depart,’ Faug said. ‘He has been seeking atonement before the Gods ever since his loss at Silverrun. He will surely see this as a message from the Eightfold.’
‘Scoll Skagson as well,’ Gulgrak added, the Nurgle-worshipping champion scratching at the weeping sores that constantly left his bare skin red-raw. ‘He will not refuse me again, not after the blessings the Grandfather inflicted on his tribe the last time.’
‘And the Hidesails,’ Dravga interjected. ‘I am still their captain, whether they like it or not. They will reave once more in your name, lord.’
‘This is a good beginning,’ Vanik said, nodding. ‘Svarbald, what of the Triborn?’
The chieftain shook his head. ‘Vorlock fell in battle with the Sons of Baelloc last spring-tide. I have no sway with their new master.’
‘I might be able to bring the Fifteenth Anointed to our side,’ Moll said, his tone cautious. ‘But I have not heard word of them or Lord Barrin for three seasons. They may have taken their campaign against the aelf scum deeper into Hysh. I doubt they would reach us in time if so.’
‘Send a rider anyway,’ Vanik ordered. ‘Your fastest horses and your most trusted message bearers, all of you. If there are debts to call in, call them in. If there are threats to make, make them. The Gods will be watching us when we reach Chamon, of that I can assure you.’
The assembly dispersed. Vanik motioned for Jevcha to remain behind.
‘You still have doubts, sister,’ he said, sensing her unhappiness.
She shrugged. ‘Even if we waited for months, and even if every warband you summon were to come, we would not take Helmgard. And we cannot wait for months. Skoren will find a way to reach Albermarl before then.’
‘I know,’ Vanik said. ‘Karex was of the same belief. We will not wait for months. But nor will I take only five hundred blades into Chamon. To do what I intend, we will need at least a show of strength.’
‘This is not a quest I have ever heard being demanded of a Black Pilgrim before,’ Jevcha went on. ‘Let alone two.’
‘I have been chosen,’ Vanik replied. ‘You will lead the warband again until my return.’
‘Leaving already?’ Jevcha demanded, her tone coloured with anger. Vanik knew how much she disliked leading in his absence, how she preferred only the company of the Darkoath tribespeople who had adopted her, and not the disparate factions of warriors Vanik had brought together. Her discomfort did not concern him.
‘I am going to find Ulek,’ he said. ‘With him, his warriors and his prowess, we will be able to attract more Bloodbound to our host.’
‘But Ulek is dead,’ Jevcha said.
‘He was taken,’ Vanik corrected. ‘Taken a season ago by S’aai and his God-Seekers.’
Ulek was an exalted deathbringer of the Blood God, a battle-hardened slaughterer whose name commanded great respect among the Bloodbound brotherhoods. Ulek and Vanik had found common cause before, and the Black Pilgrim hoped to do so again.
‘If S’aai has him then he is surely dead, and all his warriors with him,’ Jevcha said.
‘We don’t know that, and we won’t until we ask S’aai directly.’
Jevcha scowled. ‘This is madness. Even if S’aai had permitted Ulek to live this long and retained enough of his body and soul to be of any use, how will you convince S’aai to release him? The Castellum of the Virtues is not a place even most of my Darkoath would consider attacking, and the forest that surrounds it is even worse.’
‘I will take your tracker, Yori.’
‘Are you listening to anything I’m saying?’ Jevcha demanded, her voice rising. ‘If you’re lucky, S’aai will kill you. If not, you’ll end up like Ulek. Assuming he even still lives!’
Vanik said nothing at first, letting Jevcha’s frustration drain before him. When he spoke again, his tone was slow and measured.
‘You have started to underestimate me, Jevcha. At times you sound like the Daemonflayer. She does not know me, so she is permitted her mistakes. You, however, do.’
The tone would have cowed any other warrior in the warband. Jevcha only scowled harder, her yellow eyes aflame.
‘You have changed since you took up the pilgrim’s black, Vanik. Every risk you take is bolder than the last.’
‘Such is the nature of the Path,’ he responded, looking past her. ‘I know you do not wish to remain here any longer. I know the war parties have grown restless. But do not worry about S’aai, or Ulek. I have already considered how to retrieve the deathbringer. I will return here with him, and have word sent out to every Khorne warband between here and the Brass River saying that he fights beneath my black banner. Then, we march on Chamon.’
‘S’aai’s dreadhold is a darkling place, even for those who seek the Lost God,’ Jevcha said, her voice resigned now. ‘To go there will be to place your life and soul into the hands of S’aai.’
‘What other choice do I have?’ Vanik demanded, his patience expended. ‘Without Ulek or the warriors he can summon we do not have a host enough to storm it, and even if we did I could not risk losing so many warriors before we journey to Chamon.’
Jevcha nodded.
‘Go with the Eightstar’s blessing then, brother,’ she said quietly.
‘If Gulgrak, Moll or Svarbald speak ill of me, you, or question the Path, kill them,’ Vanik added.
‘With pleasure,’ Jevcha said, a note of fire re-entering her voice. She had been leading warrior bands for years. Vanik knew that her hesitation was not uncertainty. It was a desire not to exceed his commands. He had no doubt that she could have bound the war party to her own will in a matter of days. It was not, however, her will that drove them, but Vanik’s. Reminding restless champions of that while he was absent was one of the most difficult tasks to ask of any warrior of Chaos.
‘You have honoured me with your service,’ Vanik said, the caustic edge gone from his voice. ‘For more years than I deserve. When I join the ranks of the Fifth and am anointed with the sigil of the Three-Eyed King, I will not forget you.’
‘You chose your Path,’ Jevcha said, shrugging off his words. ‘I chose mine. The Gods will do as they please.’
‘We will do the ice lodges proud, my sister. The first knight to be raised up from the Splintered Coast.’
She looked at him, and smiled.
‘I do not doubt it. I will see you again, when you return.’
ACT II
THE PATH TO GLORY
Part Seven
The Court of
the Seven Virtues
Vanik assembled his retinue that night, to depart in the morning. The Eightguard ate and took on fresh steeds from among Faug’s herd – such changes were necessary when Vanik’s quests and trials bore him across the wastes of the Eightpoints. Only Tzatzo seemed never to tire, her and Modred’s indefatigable little black nag.
To the Eightguard, Vanik added Yori, Jevcha’s wizened old Darkoath pathfinder. Though grey-haired and white-eyed, the aged warrior had led the warband safe through cloying marshland and maddening mirror-mazes for years, seemingly relying on the preternatural senses the True Gods had blessed him with. He rode with a dozen of Faug’s steppe horsemen, brought to act as outriders, scouts and messengers for the small party.
They rode as a trio of new, red suns bled ruddy light into the surrounding plains. Renki’s dogs howled mournfully into the dawn, until the sound was lost to Vanik beneath the drumming of hooves.
It was difficult to tell how long they travelled for. Days and nights came and went irregularly. Vanik had counted eleven before they reached their destination, but Modred said nine and Kulthuk fourteen. Yori told the truth – he didn’t know. They encamped when exhaustion took them, ate when they hungered, and prayed to all the Gods to speed their journey. At one point, they had to detour from the path suggested by Yori to avoid a travelling warband, for Vanik didn’t recognise their distant banners and icons. During one night, when a deep chill descended on the plains and sword blades, axe heads and armour plates became rimmed with hoar frost, a pack of the feral hound-beasts that roamed the steppes caught their scent. All night they circled the small encampment, their howls and unearthly shrieks confounding any attempt at sleep. The retinue kept close to the fire, their weapons drawn. When dawn finally came, however, there were no signs of the feral creatures that had stalked the frigid darkness beyond the firelight.
On what Vanik thought was the sixth day they came upon an old shrine, a stone slab atop a low, flat-topped hill. Vanik inspected the runes carved into its craggy flanks. Though he couldn’t discern the Gods or daemons it was specifically dedicated to, it certainly bore the blessings of the Dark Tongue. He drew blood from the back of his own forearm, and had every man and woman in the expedition do the same, smearing a portion of their lifeblood on the weathered old stones while Kulthuk led a short blood-rite dedication.
It seemed to work – the days were longer and the nights less disturbed. Eventually, after setting out during the hours of darkness, they saw the first signs of their destination amidst the light of the day, a dark green sprawl over the next barren rise.
The Castellum of the Virtues lay at the heart of a heavy, dark-leafed woodland, its expanse an unsettling contrast to the dead earth of the wastes that surrounded it. Vanik and his retinue entered it as the dawn spread across the wastes, a golden light that winked through the thick canopy.
The Black Pilgrim was on his guard. Jevcha had already warned him of the cursed glade she claimed protected the Slaaneshi fortress, but for the first few hours there was no indication of anything untoward. The woodland was thick and lush, the canopy heavy, permitting only the barest hint of the new day’s light into the undergrowth. The path they followed was little more than an uncertain passage between the leafy boughs, and Vanik was forced to lean low in Tzatzo’s saddle to avoid the branches and creepers that clustered the trail.
