Mark of Chaos (24 page)

'You could have had it all, von Kessel.' declared the count. 'I wanted you at my side, that is why I spared your life. You could have been my heir and successor. You are as foolish as your grandfather was before you. I offered him a place alongside my... friends. I offered him it all, all the secrets that I had learnt in overcoming my illnesses, but he refused them. I give you one last chance - will you stand at my side? Or will you choose death?'

Albrecht drew his sword, pointing it at the throat of one of the men approaching his captain. The knight of the Reiklandguard too drew his blade, a massive weapon, and held it in his hands before him. 'I will see you dead, Gruber. I will kill you and all your treacherous lackeys.' snarled Stefan, casting his gaze over the gathered courtiers. The witch hunter strode forwards.

'Your actions condemn you, von Kessel.' he snapped. Stefan drew one of his pistols and levelled it at the witch hunter.

'No,' he said, 'you condemn yourself.' and he shot the man in the face.

'That went well
,' said Albrecht as they rode back to their army. Stefan's face was grim.

'Bring the army over the hill, sergeant. We end this today.'

Hroth brought his
axe up as the daemon blade of Asavar Kul descended towards him. He blocked the blow, and lightning witch-fire exploded outwards from Kul's sword, dancing over the Khorne champion's weapon and up his arms. He staggered back under the force of the blow, his fingers and arms numb.

'You are nothing to me, little man.' said the massive warlord again, and swung at him once more. Hroth leaped backwards to avoid the blow. The blade flashed towards him again, and he rolled to the side to avoid it. It smashed into the skulls they stood upon, shattering them and sending shards of bone flying into the air.

'You think you are worthy to wield this hallowed blade?' boomed the warlord. 'You are nothing. Worthless. A pitiful, little man. You are a dog. A whelp. Nothing more.'

Something deep within Hroth broke at that point. Red fury welled up through him, filling him with anger and hatred. It fuelled his weary limbs, filling him with strength and power. The horns on his head burst into flames, and his eyes blazed with rage. With a bestial roar, he threw himself at the warlord, hefting his axe at his foe with all the daemonic strength coursing through him.

Kul met the blow head-on, parrying it and sending a brutal riposte that would have taken Hroth's head from his shoulders. The champion of Khorne ducked underneath it and rammed his axe up into the belly of the warlord, shattering armour plates and driving into the flesh beneath.

Grunting with pain, Asavar Kul smashed the hilt of his sword into Hroth's head, and kicked him away. Blood trickled from the wound down across the Khorne warrior's brow. It touched the flames on his right eye and they flared brightly. The rage was still building within him, and his muscles strained and bulged as his breathing became heavier. Growling like a beast, he launched himself at the bigger warrior, hacking and cutting.

Asavar Kul backed away from the fury of the assault, his blade flashing out left and right, deflecting all the attacks driving towards him. The daemon blade arced out, scoring a wound on the Khorne berserker's arm. The daemon within the sword writhed and contorted in ecstasy, and the wound hissed and smoked. Hroth barely noticed, and uncaring, threw himself into the attack once more, forsaking any pretence of defence. His axe was a blur as it whirled around him, and he rained countless blows down upon the warlord who struggled to match the intensity of the attack.

Hroth suffered a deep wound across his thigh, and another across his chest, but he managed to smash his axe into Kul's shoulder, ripping the armour from his flesh. Hroth's rage and power continued to build, and he could feel Khorne within him, urging him on and gifting him with furious strength. His vision was red and his mind went completely blank, utterly focused on his rage.

With a deft twist of his wrist, Asavar Kul sent Hroth's axe flying from his grasp, and it spun end over end off the side of the plateau of skulls, disappearing into flame and smoke. Without missing a beat, the champion of Khorne threw himself at the warlord, his hands reaching for the man's throat. Kul rammed the daemon blade into his chest, impaling him. Hroth, uncaring, pushed on, and the blade was driven through him, punching from his back in a spray of blood.

The champion of Khorne had his hands around the gorget protecting Kul's throat, and the metal strained and buckled under his strength. Asavar Kul slipped, dislodging a landslide of skulls. With a final push, Hroth hefted the man off his feet, and the two of them toppled off the edge.

They continued to battle as they fell, Kul twisting his daemon blade that was impaling the Khorne champion, and Hroth continuing to crush the warlord's throat. Growling like a wounded animal, Hroth drove his forehead into Kul's helmet, again and again. Blood began to pour down Hroth's face, but he did not care, already seeing only red. The metal helmet began to buckle and crumple. Tumbling over and over, they battled each other as they fell into flames.

The metal helmet of Asavar Kul was bent out of shape, and Hroth wrenched it from the warlord's head. The face beneath was bloodied and contorted in anger and pain, and he drove the palm of his hand into the warlord's nose, sending shards of bone driving up into his brain. Still the warlord fought on, even as they crashed into the skulls and bones piled at the base of the tower, hundreds of feet below.

Hroth was on top of the warlord, his knee driven deep into Asavar Kul's chest. The warlord's blade still spitted him, but Kul had let go his grasp upon the deadly weapon. The blade disappeared suddenly, and Hroth found himself kneeling over the body of Kul, his axe somehow grasped in his right hand - in his left he held the daemon blade, U'zhul.

Looking up, his vision still red, Hroth saw that Asavar Kul stood before him, arms folded over his massive chest. Looking down, confused, he saw the bloodied figure of the warlord pinned beneath him.

'You do well, warrior of Chaos,' the standing Asavar Kul said.

Then Hroth drove the blade U'zhul straight through the body of the fallen Kul with a rage-filled roar, piercing his heart. The life force and power of the great man flowed up through the blade and into Hroth, and he roared in victory. Energy coursed through him, filling his veins with power: power the likes of which he had never felt before.

Hroth the mortal was no more. Hroth the Blooded, Daemon Prince of Khorne, was born.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Albrecht stared grimly
across the open field. The sun had still not pierced the thick clouds overhead, and the grass was still covered in frost. In the distance, he could see Gruber's army, resplendently arrayed against them. Men of Ostermark fighting men of Ostermark while enemies awaited to descend upon the Empire, he thought. This was a bad day.

'Is there no way that we can avoid this battle?' he asked the captain, although he already knew the answer.

'Do you mean before the count threatened to hang me and I blew the head off that witch hunter? Probably. Now? Not a chance.'

'No, I know that. The men fighting for Gruber - they ain't bad men, captain. They are just doing their duty.'

'As are we,' said Stefan, his face darkening.

'One step removed and we would have been fighting on that side over there, as could any of the men fighting for you. What good will come of brother killing brother?'

'What good will come of it? Gruber must die, Albrecht. You know that!'

'Of course I know it, but surely there is some other way, a way that won't see men of the Empire butchered, regardless of the outcome.'

'If a few men have to die for Ostermark to be free, that's a price that must be paid, Albrecht. This conversation is over.' The captain stalked away from the sergeant at that point, shouting to his men, readying them for the battle to come.

Still, the words of his sergeant stuck with him, and Stefan knew that he had spoken the truth. This was a bitter day for Ostermark, and if there were some way for him to avoid the battle while still taking Gruber's head, then all the better. He had walked amongst the men for the past few hours, talking to his soldiers, showing them that he was one of them, and not some leader that would shirk battle once it was closed. Not that they needed this reassurance, for every man had seen him in battle before, leading from the front.

Why then was he so uneasy, he wondered? The answer was an easy one - because this was a battle that none would celebrate, win or lose. To gain victory, he was asking his men to kill their own kinsmen, people from the same villages and towns where they grew up. He saw the leader of the flagellants, the nameless ex-knight, seated alone on a log. He was motionless, as if his crazed fervour had finally seeped out of him. His lack of movement seemed at odds amongst the army that was bustling to be ready for battle.

'Greetings, warrior.' said the captain. The man who had once been a knight of the Reiklandguard looked up at him, his eyes glazed. The twin-tailed comet cut into his forehead was scabbed over. It had evidently been some time since he had last carved it into his head. 'You and your companions will not fight this day?'

'Fight? Today? No, we will not fight. Not yet. Not just yet.' He stared at the captain, madness clear in his eyes. 'Sigmar is not shining within me this day. He has abandoned me, and thrown me into the darkness. It is a sign. Through pain, I will cleanse my body. As day turns to night, I will cleanse myself. Through pain, I will regain his light, and then... I will be no more.'

'I see. That is... good, my friend. I wish you well.' said Stefan, and made to leave the madman with his sorrow.

'When the plagued one shows himself, we will fight.' the man called out suddenly. 'When the daemons of the Lord of Flies cavort.' he shouted, clawing at Stefan's legs. 'I will fight then! Sigmar will come back to me then!' The captain pushed the man back from him. 'He will shine his light upon me once more if I smite the pestilent ones! See! See him! He comes!' the man screamed in sudden rapture, pointing and abasing himself on the ground, smearing mud on his face. 'He comes. Sigmar himself!' In the man's eyes he saw a warrior bathed in glowing white light walking towards him, holding a blazing warhammer.

Stefan looked up to see what the crazed man saw, expecting nothing, but he saw the massive warrior priest Gunthar walking towards him, his face haggard and drawn. Indeed, it looked as if the priest had aged a decade - his eyes were rimmed with darkness, and his face was heavily lined. A fresh pair of ugly scars cut across his face, starting above his hairline, passing down through his eyebrow and continuing onto his cheekbone. The man on the ground continued to prostrate himself in the earth, and Gunthar knelt beside him, placing a hand on the man's head. The man froze for a moment, and then sat up, his eyes clear of the madness. 'I am not our Lord Sigmar, man, but his light shines through me. It shines in you, as well.' said the warrior priest. The man, looking at Gunthar in awe, stood for a moment speechless, before he ran off into the crowd.

'Gunthar, you look terrible.' said Stefan.

'Well you ain't exactly the pick of the crop yourself.' bellowed the massive priest before grabbing the captain in a crushing bear hug. 'At least my scars don't cover up
all
of my pretty face.' Stefan stood rigid, uncomfortable with any physical contact. At last the priest pushed the captain back, holding him at arm's length.

'I have it.' he whispered hoarsely. 'By Sigmar, I have it!' A fierce light was shining in the priest's eyes, making him look more than a little deranged. Then the shine seemed to fade, and the priest sagged visibly, his massive shoulders slumping.

'We were nearly lost. I'm sorry that I return with so few of your men, captain. The walking dead claimed them. Evil guarded this blade, but that darkness has been slain, and the dead have been laid to rest, thank Sigmar.' Gunthar raised himself up, and thrust the sword towards Stefan.

'Kill the fiend, captain. It is only right that he dies at your hand.'

'What do you
mean, the guns are clean?' Engineer Markus asked in exasperation, running his finger along inside the
barrel of one of the great cannon. He lifted up his blackened finger and held it out to the crewmen for inspection. 'For Shallya's sake, do it properly, would you? The enemy has more guns than us -
these weapons must be in top condition. This cannon,' he said, slapping the barrel of the gun, 'is worth more than your lives - treat her with the respect you'd give your mothers.'

'I'd treat her with the respect I'd give
your
mother,' muttered one of the men. His companions sniggered.

'What did you say?' snapped the engineer, staring down the bigger man, not intimidated. It was a vaguely comical scene, the small and immaculately dressed though wild-haired engineer standing indignant before the hulking, soot covered men towering above him, who resolutely stared at their toes. 'Well, what was it? Some besmirching of my mother's honour, hmm? I'll have you know that the Lady Isabella von Kempt is a lady of high esteem, and is classed as a dear friend to the counts of several Imperial states.'

'I'll bet she is,' muttered another man at the back of the group, causing more muffled guffaws.

'Right! That's it, you vulgar men! I will not stand here and hear my dear mother's name smeared with your ribald foolery! I want these guns cleaned, properly cleaned mind, and hitched up to the horses
within the half hour
.
That's right, groan all you like,' shouted the small engineer. 'What's the matter with you? Get moving!'

The crewmen set to their work, grumbling and swearing, while the engineer picked up his newly purchased Hochland longrifle and began to dismantle it, peering at its mechanisms and down the long barrel with intense concentration. It was back-breaking labour for the cannon crew, readying the guns for war, and they worked in silence, their faces grim - each man lost in his own thoughts.