Mark of Chaos (6 page)

Stomping through the dense undergrowth, swatting twisted, grabbing branches out of his way, he recalled the words of Slaaeth.
Sent like a dog
,
he had said, to fetch the staff for his master.

He scoffed. No one was his master, he thought, kicking a rotten log from his path.

He hated the dark, dense forests of the Empire. He knew that they served his purpose, for even when its armies were at full force the weak Empire men could not patrol every square mile of the massive forests that filled their lands. Dark things lurked in the hidden depths where no men trod, and thousands of beastmen infested the deeper reaches of the forests. Still, Hroth loathed feeling so enclosed. The trees were giant twisted things that had grown into all manner of contorted shapes. Their branches far overhead wove into an impenetrable covering, letting no hint of light through. Thick, rotting mulch covered the ground, the thin layer of ice that lay atop it cracking as Hroth stepped through the dark wilderness.

The darkness itself did not bother him. No, he was used to that. In the homeland of the Khazags, months of travel to the far northeast, almost half the year existed in darkness, for the sun rose barely above the horizon. The land of the nomadic Khazags was open, and almost completely free of vegetation. Good horseman land. Craggy dark rock covered its slopes, ragged and sharp. Steaming pools of sulphur-rich water could be found amongst some of the rocky peaks, occasionally bursting forth as towering geysers when the gods were hungry. That was the landscape that he was comfortable in, with the skies open above him, never with a roof over his head.

He also hated skulking around in the shadows. Again, he knew it was necessary, for his warband, though growing, was not large enough for him to march straight through the Empire. Nevertheless, it rankled. Facing the enemy on the field of battle, that was what he longed for. To face the might of the enemy head on, and to triumph, that was the way of Khorne.

Hroth stalked into the clearing. The ground was blackened with fire, and a group of warriors stood at its centre. They saw the approaching Khorne champion and his warband, and turned to face him. One of them, wearing fully enclosed black armour, walked forwards to meet him. A dull red glow could be seen through the slits in his helmet, emanating from within. He halted in front of Hroth, who folded his arms and stared at him hard before nodding his head in greeting.

'I see you, Hroth of the Khazags.' the warrior intoned, his voice muffled. 'I see you, Borkhil of the Dolgans.' 'You were the victor then. I was not so sure that you had the power to take Zar Slaaeth.'

'I am pleased to have proven you wrong.' growled Hroth. 'The Blood God is with me.'

'Just as the Dark Prince was with Slaaeth. Then the Lord of Pleasure is a fickle one, easily bored by those whom once he favoured.' 'The devious one is not to be trusted.' said Hroth. He had met Borkhil on several occasions, for he was never far from Sudobaal. Borkhil and his ruthless black armoured warriors were utterly dedicated to the sorcerer, hailing from the same tribe, and recognising the power that he wielded. Looking over Borkhil's shoulder, Hroth stared at the other warriors. Two were Kurgan chieftains known to him, powerful warriors both. Another was a tall, broad shouldered chieftain of the Norse, his eyes blue and piercing, and his long blond hair knotted with charms and fetishes. The last was a shorter man wearing heavy furs and no armour upon his chest. His skin was daubed with paint, and a bestial skull obscured his face. Another Kurgan chieftain, Hroth reasoned. He saw that the man's legs ended in cloven hooves.

'Did you find what our Lord Sudobaal sent you to retrieve?' asked Borkhil.

Hroth bit back an angry reply. 'I brought
your
lord what he wanted, yes.'

'This is good. The word can be spread to the scattered tribes. Our grand success and our Lord Sudobaal's ascension grows ever closer.'

'Where is the sorcerer?' asked Hroth sharply. The black armoured figure of Borkhil was silent for a moment, looking at the glowering champion of Khorne before him.

'You are a powerful chieftain, Hroth the Blooded of the Khazags. Your victories are many, and all can see the favour of the gods upon you. You have been blessed, for you have become chosen. You have proven yourself a valuable ally of Lord Sudobaal.'

'But always remember that he is
more
powerful. His skill in the Dark Tongue is the equal of the most favoured shamans of the far northern tribes. He surpasses the skill of any witch of the Khazags. When he speaks the Dark Tongue, the gods themselves hear him, for he is their oracle, and they grant him great power. He commands a dozen powerful chieftains. You are but one of them, remember. Never let your foolish pride make you his enemy.'

Before he could reply, Hroth saw the black robed figure of Sudobaal making his way down the rocky rough ground that rose above the other end of the clearing. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as the sorcerer approached, and could taste the sharp, electric taste of magic in his mouth. He hated the sensation, but repressed his dislike.

'The sorcerer is powerful, yes.' snarled Hroth at Borkhil, out of the earshot of the approaching sorcerer, 'but one day soon I will be more powerful even than him. On that day I will cut you down, Borkhil, and offer your skull up to the Blood God.'

'If such a day was to come, then I would welcome the chance to face you, Hroth of the Khazags,' intoned the black armoured figure, before stepping aside for his Lord Sudobaal. The other chieftains bowed their heads at the approach of the sorcerer.

The sorcerer threw back his hood, exposing his ancient, pinched face. His features were hard, cruel and fierce despite his age, and he exuded menace. Power emanated from him in throbbing waves, as if the invisible, ever-present winds of magic responded to every beat of his heart. Deep sigils were cut into the skin of his cheeks - runes of power that made Hroth's eyes hurt. The sorcerer's unblinking, snake-like yellow eyes conveyed no emotion, and his mouth was set in a deep scowl.

'You have the staff?' the sorcerer asked, his voice deep and sepulchral. Though Hroth stood almost a full head and a half taller than the sorcerer, the smaller man oozed menace and power. Hroth could feel the power of the sorcerer beating upon him, urging him to fall to his knees. Gritting his teeth, he waved the warrior Thorgar forwards. He bore a heavy fur pelt in his arms. Laying it on the ground, Thorgar drew the furs back, exposing the twisted staff within, careful not to touch it. The inside of the fur was singed, and the smell of burning hair rose from the pelt.

Sudobaal stared unblinking at the staff, and his mouth twisted into a savage grin. He stepped forwards eagerly and crouched beside it, his talon-like hands feeling the air above the staff. The runt can barely contain himself, thought Hroth, as the sorcerer became flushed, and his breathing quickened.

'Yes.' whispered the sorcerer. 'This is it.' He licked his dry, pinched lips, and reached towards the twisted shaft. He picked it up gingerly in both hands, cradling it gently as a mother would her babe. He rose to his feet, eyes shining.

The staff began to move, very slowly, and the uncoiling root-like tendrils wrapped themselves around Sudobaal's hand and forearm. The sorcerer watched transfixed as the sharpened ends of the branches pierced his skin and entered his veins. He felt a pull at his heart as his blood began to flow into the staff, travelling up its twisted length and pumping around the stylised Chaos star at its tip. It burst into flames suddenly, blue and green fire that rippled and flickered along the entire staff.

Sudobaal smiled cruelly as he came to understand and master the staff. With a single thought he made the blue-green flames flare up angrily, changing hue to a deep purple-red, lighting up the entire clearing with the daemonic glow. With another thought, he made the flames dissipate almost completely, their flicker almost imperceptible.

'You have done well, chosen.' said Sudobaal, his features once more set grimly. Turning towards Borkhil and the other chieftains, who were clearly awed by the display, Sudobaal spoke, his deep voice authoritative. 'My plans are soon to be fulfilled. Torben Skull-splitter, take your Norsemen northwest tonight. Travel by road and clear the way of any enemies you discover. Torch any buildings you find, and slay any within. I will send a message to you within the week. Dharkon Gar, you and your cousin will take your tribes south. Plunder and pillage all that you can, be a wound in the side of
the Empire that they cannot ignore. They will divert some forces to deal with you, for your warriors are many - too many to be ignored.' The two Kurgan chieftains nodded their heads. Sudobaal turned towards the cloven-hoofed, shorter chieftain.

'You, Ghorbar Beast-kin, will travel the dark paths to the northeast, two weeks' march from here. Seek out the beast tribes hidden there. Prepare the gibbet tree for my coming.'

The chieftain bowed his head, and marched off, barking orders.

Turning back towards Hroth and Borkhil, Sudobaal was silent for a moment. He inclined his head to one side, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear. Then he nodded to himself, and spoke. 'Hroth the Blooded, you and your warband will accompany me. I name you my warlord, chieftain amongst my chieftains. You have proven your worth to me, and the gods favour you.' With that, Sudobaal turned on his heel and moved off, climbing the rocky ground back towards the cave.

Borkhil dropped to one knee before Hroth. 'My blade is yours, warlord.' intoned the black-clad warrior. The other remaining chieftains did likewise.

Hroth the Blooded smiled, exposing his sharp teeth. Flames burnt furiously in the eyes. Yes, he thought, I have proven my worth.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER NINE

For two arduous
weeks of hard marching, the soldiers of Ostermark trudged towards the north coast of the Empire. The lands they passed through had suffered much during the previous three years. Although the main force of Asavar Kul's army never crossed the borders of Kislev into the Empire itself during the Great War, hundreds of warbands did, sent to sow terror and dissent amongst the Empire's populace.

While Asavar Kul marched into Kislev at the head of the greatest Chaos force the world had ever seen, these warbands struck at isolated, rural Empire villages and towns, burning them to the ground and sacrificing the inhabitants to their Dark Gods. The Empire, divided by four hundred years of internal struggle and civil war, did not react in any orderly fashion. Deep division between the provinces meant that there was no unified defence, and as each elector acted independently, doing what he saw as best for himself, the forces of Chaos flourished within the dark forests of the Empire.

Over the previous four hundred years, as civil war and unrest plagued the Empire, the elector counts had grown lax at rooting out the evil creatures that lurked in the forests that surrounded their cities, and so when the forces of Chaos began their assault, countless thousands of beastmen from the forests joined them. Their ranks were swollen with those who had been cast out of their homes - for consorting with Dark Powers, or for being unable to hide hideous mutations from the societies they lived in. Many that had slunk away into the darkness now arose, eager to cast down those who had oppressed them. They had been lurking for generations, awaiting their time to rise and slaughter those they had hidden from.

Witchcraft and sorcery had long been forbidden in the Empire, and all who dabbled in its dangerous arts, or were accused of doing so, were ruthlessly hunted down, tortured and burnt to death. Those fearing persecution also fled into the concealing darkness of the forests. Most were slaughtered by the dark things that lurked there, but some survived, for their dark magic skills were true. These magisters and witches also rose up when the waves of Chaos energy rippled from the far Northern Wastes, and they attacked the Empire from within its own borders alongside the Chaos warbands, the mutants, the cultists and the uncountable beasts of the forest.

The lands they had marched through still bore the mark of this devastation. It would take generations before the wounds healed, thought Stefan, although he doubted whether the Empire had generations to spare. The Great War had been won, but in his darker moments, he wondered whether the conflict would ever end. He had never voiced such doubts and never would, but sometimes in the dead of night they crept up on him. Or they came at him when he walked silently through yet another deserted village, the skeletal remains of its occupants nailed to barn doors, long since picked clean by carrion-eaters.

The northern lands had perhaps suffered the most of all the lands in the Empire. They were far from any of the great cities, and far from the protection that they yielded. Many of the people that had lived this far north had no idea of what was occurring in the outside world before the hordes of Chaos descended upon them, hacking and slaying, and ravaging and burning.

The villages that Stefan and his army discovered that were still miraculously inhabited were overrun with plague and pestilence. He ordered his soldiers to pass by these infected settlements in wide arcs, not venturing too close. Still, many of the sick and dying villagers would cry out to the men of Ostermark for aid or food, for they were starving as well as plague-ridden.

Many of the men of Ostermark had wished to aid the wretches, but they were sternly ordered not to do so by the sergeant, Albrecht. 'It won't do them or us no good, lads.'

Still, a steady stream of ragtag hangers-on attached themselves to the marching military force. At first, it was just a few frightened families whose homes had been destroyed, and they quickly made themselves useful around the camp, cleaning and cooking to earn some food. Stefan cast a blind eye to this, for it had no damaging effect. However, the rabble grew steadily as the days passed, and soon there had been hundreds of the pathetic hangers-on following the army. Most could not match the exacting pace set by Stefan and the reiksmarshal, and they were encouraged to head south, towards Wolfenburg. As the days passed, most were left behind to face the dangers of the wilderness. Many took the captain's advice and began to make the perilous trek towards Wolfenburg, but Stefan knew that most would never make it. Still, for every family group that was left behind another attached itself to the cavalcade, and they were joined by more unsavoury elements.