Warhammer [Ignorant Armies] (28 page)

Kurt nodded and drew his finger across his throat. The dwarf once more fell silent. Kurt gave Aazella his attention. He noticed that behind her the storm had affected the crystal flowers. They had grown to be higher than a man, and seemed thinner and more translucent, like blooms of glazed sugar. Bloated black insects moved over them, gnawing the leaves.

The enemy were no more than a dozen yards from them when the eyes of the impaled head above the banner opened. It licked its lips and spoke in a horrid, lascivious voice: "Beware, mistress. Foes wait in ambush."

Kurt leapt to his feet. "Blood for the Blood God!" he shouted, gesturing his men forward with a motion of his axe.

With a roar, the dwarvish tube spat forth its projectile. The missile buried itself in the chest of the man-bull, knocking it from its feet. It fell to the ground, its entrails pouring from its ruined abdomen.

His men raced forward to attack as Kurt charged the woman on her steed. The animal licked out at him with a flickering tongue, long as a rope, glistening stickily. It reminded him of the tongue of a toad. He chopped at it with his runesword, cutting it in two. The beast retracted its tongue, whimpering in pain.

He closed and struck it with his axe. The blade failed to bite on the creature's resilient hide. Above him the child's head kept up a babbling stream of obscenities.

Aazella lifted the standard and smashed it into his chest. The blow landed with surprising force and knocked him from his feet. Above him the beast of Slaanesh skittered and danced. Despite the black spots floating before his eyes he managed to roll clear of its talons.

He lashed out with his blade, hamstringing the creature. It fell to one side as he pulled himself to his feet. The woman let go the standard and rolled from her saddle. With amazing agility she performed a handspring and came to land in a fighting stance, pulling a long metallic whip from her belt.

She licked her red lips, revealing fanged incisors. Then she smiled at him. "You seek a pleasurable death, warrior. I shall see you writhe in ecstasy before you die."

"Die, spawn of Slaanesh!" Kurt bellowed, rushing at her. "Die in the name of Khorne!"

As he invoked his dread lord's name he once more felt the strength of murderous bloodlust flow through him. He aimed a stroke which would have split her in two. She avoided it like a gazelle leaping from a lion's spring, then stuck out a foot, tripping him.

"Clumsy man," she taunted. "You'll have to do better."

He growled like a wild animal and leapt to his feet. This time he advanced towards her more cautiously, feinting gently with his sword, preparing to swing his axe. Somewhere he could hear the voice of a child, taunting him.

He struck with the axe and once more she evaded it. This time she struck at him with her whip. It looped around his throat, blocking his breath. As it completed its last coil, he found himself glaring into serpentine eyes. The head of a snake tipped the lash. It hissed and bit into his cheek.

Knowing he was poisoned drove him to redoubled effort. Determined to at least sacrifice her in the name of his god, he dropped his weapons and with both hands grabbed the whip's metallic line. He jerked her towards him.

So sudden was his move that she did not let go the weapon but was drawn towards him. He let go the whip and grabbed her throat with his mailed hands. He began to tighten his grip.

They fell together like lovers. From the bite in his cheek waves of pure pleasure pulsed, mingling with his berserk hatred. He shut his eyes and squeezed ever harder as the pleasure mounted. It burst inside him as intense as pain and then he knew only darkness and cold.

"What happened?" Kurt heard a deep, gruff voice ask. The words were his own.

He raised thick fingers to his face to feel the fur of his forehead. His arms felt like treetrunks, thick and bloated. His chest felt broader. His voice seemed to rumble from a chasm deep within him. From off in the distance he could hear an agonized scream which ended in mad, gibbering laughter and a moan of pleasure.

"I thought you were dead, Kurt." said Oleg. His face drifted into view. It looked blotched and leprous. Two small growths had appeared on his forehead and his shoulder seemed to have a hump on it.

"You're not looking too well, Oleg," growled Kurt.

"You have not been well. After you killed the woman, you fell into a feverish swoon. You lay and gibbered for two long days."

"What happened to her?"

"An unnatural thing. You both fell. Your hands were about her throat. I approached to give her the coup-de-grace but her armour rose from the ground and walked off into the wasteland. Her eyes were closed. I could have sworn she was dead."

"We have seen the last of her," boomed Kurt. "What became of her men?"

"Yorri and the lads ate the beastmen. You can hear the screams of the elves."

The little man shuddered. "Truly, Kurt, we are in hell."

"Greetings, brother, whither goest thou?" The speaker was garbed in rune-encrusted plate. A full helmet obscured his face except for reddish glowing eyes. He was tall and thin, predatory-looking as a mantis. Behind him was ranged a force of mangy beastmen. They loomed menacingly against a landscape of redly glowing craters.

Kurt studied the other warrior warily, suspecting treachery. "I am bound for the deep lands near the Gates."

"Truly thou art the chosen of Khorne," said the other mockingly. "A thousand years ago I spoke similarly. I am sure the Blood God will reward thee suitably."

"Do not mock me, little man." said Kurt dangerously.

"I do not mock thee. I envy thy determination. I had not the will to progress further in the service of our dark lord. I fear I was over-cautious. Now I wander these lands forlornly. 'Tis a drab existence."

Zaharoff spoke. "You do not seriously expect us to believe this tale? A thousand years!"

The slender warrior laughed. "Ten years, a century, a millennium, what does it matter? Time flows strangely here at the world's edge. All who dwell within the Wastes learn that eventually."

"Who are you?" asked Kurt.

"I am Prince Dieter the Unchanging."

"Kurt von Diehl."

"May I join thy quest, Sir Kurt? It may prove mildly amusing."

"I'm not sure I believe in you, prince. A foppish, cowardly servant of Khorne."

Once more the black prince laughed sweetly. "You will find, Sir Kurt, that Chaos holds all possibilities. Here nothing is impossible."

Zaharoff moved closer to Kurt. "I do not trust this one. Perhaps it would be best to kill him."

Kurt looked down at him. "Later. For now he is useful."

The beastmen fell into ranks beside the dwarfs. Dieter rode beside Kurt. Zaharoff limped along somewhat apart, keeping a cautious eye on their new companions.

They travelled across what once had been a battlefield. Here lay the bones of thousands of combatants. Rib-cages crunched under the hooves of Kurt's strangely mutating horse. The dwarfs kicked a goat-horned skull between them, laughing and making coarse jokes.

Over the whole field arced an enormous skeleton. A spine as high as a hill was supported by ribs greater than Imperial oaks. Riding beneath it was like passing below the roof of an enormous hall. After a while even the dwarfs fell silent as the oppressiveness of the place grew.

"The Field of Grax," remarked Prince Dieter conversationally. "What a pretty fray that was. The massed hordes of Khorne faced the armies of Tzeentch, the Great Mutator. Sadly we fought near the lair of the Dragon Grax. The clash of our arms disturbed his beauty sleep. He was a trifle annoyed when he was roused. I think our Lords picked this place deliberately. It was their little joke."

"I do not like the way you speak of the Dark Powers, prince," said Kurt. "It smacks of blasphemy."

The prince tittered. "Blasphemy 'gainst the Lords of Chaos, the arch-blasphemers themselves. Thou art a wit, Sir Kurt."

"I do not jest, Prince."

The prince fell silent and when he spoke again his tone was bleak and absolutely serious. "Then thou art alone in that here. Even our dark masters enjoy a joke. All thou hast seen here, all the worlds even, exist only for their amusement. The Four Powers seek to while away eternity until even they sink back into the Void Absolute. All we are is their playthings."

Kurt stared at him, fighting down the urge to draw his sword and slay the strange Chaos warrior. Walking across the field of bones, underneath the spine of the gigantic dragon, he felt dwarfed into insignificance and very alone.

The screams of the dying echoed in his ears. By the light of two bloated moons he fought and slew. He raised his sword and hacked through the dogman's shield. His blow sounded like a blacksmith hitting an anvil. It ended with a pulpy squelch.

They fought against other followers of Khorne, honing their skills, winnowing out the weak.

He looked up and he saw the radiant dark aurora in the sky. He shrieked his war-cry and drove on towards the remainder of his foes. Nearby he saw Zaharoff gnawing at the throat of one of the dead. Blood stained the downy fur of his face, his eyes were pink and his long hairless tail twitched.

Guiding his horned steed with his knees, Kurt charged towards the enemy banner, hewing down anyone who stood in his way. A great beast, long and hideously canine, snapped at his leg. He wheeled the horse round and brought its hooves thudding down on the creature's head. He leaned forward in the saddle and hacked at the thing with his rune-blade. With a whimper it died.

In the distance he saw Prince Dieter fighting his way through a group of dog-headed soldiers, a long silver blade gleaming in his hands. He showed a delicate skill that seemed out of place in a wearer of the dread black armour of Khorne.

A shock ran through him and he looked down to see another Chaos warrior, a tall helmetless man with the long hair and beard of a Norseman. He frothed at the mouth and gibbered berserkly. His huge hawk-beaked axe had opened a cut in Kurt's leg.

"Blood for the Blood God," roared the Norseman.

"Only the strong survive," bellowed Kurt, bringing his own axe down.

The berserker ignored the fact that Kurt had caved in the side of his face and continued to chop away. Kurt smiled in appreciation at the man's bloodlust before cleaving his head clean off. Even after this the Norseman continued to hack away mechanically, lashing around him blindly, chopping into the ranks of his own men.

Red rage mingled with pain as Kurt charged the enemy's standard. At that moment he felt a vast presence loom over him, leering approvingly as he butchered his opponents.

He looked up and briefly he thought he saw a gigantic horn-helmed figure silhouetted against the sky. The figure radiated bloodlust and insane approval like a daemonic sun. The feeling of approval increased with every foe Kurt slew.

Invigorated and exalted, he rode down the last few who barred his way, threw his axe at the bearer and snatched up the enemy standard. He broke it one-handed, like a twig. The enemy broke and fled and he rode them down.

"The field is ours," he cried.

Afterwards when the killing-lust had gone, he surveyed the field. The tremendous feeling of divine approval had gone and he felt empty. The battlefield seemed meaningless, the triumph hollow. Bodies were strewn everywhere in random patterns, like incomprehensible runes written by an idiotic god. The whole scene was like a painting, two-dimensional and cold. He felt disconnected from it.

He gazed out with empty eyes and for the first time in months found himself thinking of home. To his horror, try as he might, he could not recall what it looked like. The names of the family who had dispossessed him would not come. It was as if he dimly remembered another life. He had to fight back the suspicion that he had died and been reborn in a hell of unending warfare.

Staring at the devolved figure of Zaharoff, ripping haunches of flesh from the dead, revulsion overcame him. He was sick. He heard the trotting of hooves coming ever closer.

Prince Dieter looked at him and surveyed the carnage he had wrought.

"Truly, Kurt, thou art the chosen of Khorne."

His voice held a mixture of mockery, awe and pity.

"Will we never get to the Gates?" asked Kurt, looking back at the warband balefully.

Yorri scratched his head with the claw of his third arm. Zaharoff looked at him and twitched his tail. Kurt noted the red ring that surrounded his mouth.

"We may never reach them," said Prince Dieter. "Some say the Gates stretch off into infinity and that a man could ride from now till Khorne's final horn-blast and not reach them."

"You are a little late in telling us this, prince."

"It may not be the case. There are many tales about the Chaos Wastes, often contradictory. Sometimes both are true."

"You speak in riddles."

Dieter shrugged. "What one traveller meets, another may not. Distances can stretch and shrink. The stuff of reality itself becomes mutable around the Gates as the raw power of Chaos warps it."

Kurt stared off across the lake of blood. On it he could see ships of bone. Perhaps their sails were flayed flesh, he mused.

"I have heard it said that around the Gates one enters the dreams of the Old Dark Gods, that it is their thoughts that shape the land. And what the traveller meets depends on which Power is in the ascendant."

"What are the Gates?" asked Zaharoff. Kurt looked at him in surprise. It had been a long time since the little man had shown any interest in their quest. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself.

"They are where the Lords of Chaos enter our world, a doorway from their realm to ours," said Kurt.

Dieter coughed delicately. "That may be true but that is not the whole story."

"Of course thou knowest the whole story," said Kurt sardonically.

"Some say that one of the mighty sorcerers of old tried to bring daemons here but he got more than he bargained for. Some say that the Gates were a mechanism of the Elder Race known as the Slann, used for their ungodly purposes. The mechanism ran wild and a hole was created through which Chaos came into the world."