The Black Rift of Klaxus - The Scarlet Lord Read online

  The Scarlet Lord

  Josh Reynolds

  Anhur crushed the skull carelessly in his fist.

  The crumbled shards of bone tumbled from his hand to the bloody stones, there to gleam wetly in the weirdling light cast by the ever-spinning facets of the Black Rift. The Scarlet Lord turned. A jolt of pain rippled through him. It had started not long after his confrontation with Skul’rath, and grown steadily worse in the hours since. He felt as if his skin were too tight on his muscles, and as if he might burst the seams of his armour at any moment.

  Victory at the cost of pain, he thought. Such had been his mantra since he had fled Klaxus and the Tephra Crater. Pain was the coin of Khorne’s realm, and the Scarlet Lord paid it willingly. He had paid it over the course of centuries, without hesitation. ‘How much time, Pazak?’ he growled.

  ‘Some, much, a little,’ the sorcerer said tersely, as he wove his thin fingers in arcane gestures. He stood on the lip of the crater, shaping the magics that would wrench apart the flesh of the world. The air about him was thick with souls and daemons. Neither sort of apparition had any substance, but that would change in time. The ghosts grew thinner and the daemons stronger, as they battened on the blood and pain.

  Innumerable daemon-spirits suddenly raced forward through the steamy air, as if drawn from throughout the Sulphur Citadel. Anhur turned, following their path, and watched as Pazak’s blightkings spilled the blood of the latest batch of prisoners across the swelling expanse of the flesh-shroud, down in the crater. Do you feel nothing for them, then? These are your folk, a small voice murmured, deep in the back of his mind. They are Klaxians, Anhur…

  ‘Victory at the cost of pain,’ he muttered. Klaxus and its people had become weak, and it was his duty – the duty of a king – to purge them of that weakness. He would buy the glory of future generations with the pain of this one. He would forge them into a blade worthy of Khorne’s hand. Klaxus would rise as the world descended.

  A thrill of impatience raced through Anhur, and his grip on his axe tightened. He longed to bury it in unresisting flesh, to cleave bone and shatter armour. To give in, at long last, to the joyous entertainments of the red road, and become as Apademak or Hroth. To fight forever, and think of nothing save fighting. To drown slowly in seas of gore, as all that had been Prince Anhur, Keeper of Ytalan, was worn away by the ceaseless bloodstained tide.

  Anhur swung his head towards the doors to the chamber. He could hear the sounds of battle, the splitting of stone and the screech of metal. More, he could hear… the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his soldiers, killing them by the dozen. The yellow, crystalline war-plate of the knights ignored what few blows were struck in return as they strode forward, killing all who stood between them and their prey… He could hear Oros calling for the retreat, even as he dragged Anhur away from that hissing doom… They had failed… FAILED…

  Anhur howled. The sound drove the daemons into a silent frenzy. ‘I still live,’ the Scarlet Lord roared. ‘And I will not fail this time. I still live… I…’ He trailed off, as another spasm of pain gripped him. He clutched at his chest. Things moved within him, twisting into new shapes. Bones cracked and sprouted jagged spurs, filling the hollows of him with nests of pain.

  ‘Not beast, not god, less than a man,’ he murmured, as the pain receded. He pressed the flat of his axe to his brow, and listened to the maddened whispers of the battle-spirit bound to its edge. It hissed in the language of the great fire-wyrms, demanding that he hurl himself into the cauldron of war. He tore the axe away and turned. ‘Oros is coming, Pazak. But slowly, too slowly,’ he said. ‘One might think he doesn’t wish to face me again.’

  ‘I doubt that’s the case,’ Pazak hissed. Bloody steam hissed and coiled about his arms like a gaseous serpent. ‘Two sides of the same blade, you are.’

  ‘You had best be correct,’ Anhur said. ‘He must be here in time. He must see what is to come. He must know that it was all worth something, in the end.’

  ‘He won’t get very far, if Volundr catches him. The war-smith is as determined to see this through as you are,’ Pazak said. He glanced at Anhur. ‘He won’t risk letting the Stormcasts get close, if he can get away with it.’

  Anhur gestured impatiently. ‘Volundr carries out my will. He stoked Apademak’s rage, and casts the embers of my Gorechosen before the enemy. I have subsumed the Tephra Crater in the conflagration of war, to draw Khorne’s eye. But war alone is not enough,’ he said. ‘It must have purpose – the fire must burn hottest here.’

  As he spoke, the smoky shapes of daemons capered about him, as if feeding on his growing rage. Anhur ignored them. ‘I will deliver not just a skull to Khorne, but the skull of my friend, my greatest enemy, my rescuer and betrayer. There is a debt between us and it must be paid. Only then can I ascend to my rightful place.’

  Anhur threw back his head and spread his arms, allowing the daemons to crowd close about him. They clutched at him with phantasmal talons. ‘Come and fight me, Oros! Anhur stands waiting – hurry, Hound of Ytalan! The Scarlet Lord awaits you, son of Sigmar…’

  Daemons rose from the broken bodies of the dead Bloodbound, and slashed at the Stormcasts with inhuman ferocity. Liberators stopped what they were doing and fell instinctively into defensive stances. They raised shields and held warblades angled so as to thrust into scaly bodies. Bolts hissed in their runnels, ready to be loosed from thunderbolt crossbows as Judicators swung their weapons up to take aim at the daemonic shapes capering towards them through the falling rain. But no daemon-blade connected, despite the savagery of the assault. And no sound emanated from those ghastly shapes, save the whisper of blood pooling on the stones of the street and the steady drumbeat of the storm.

  ‘Hold fast,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus roared, thumping the ground with the haft of his halberd. ‘They can’t hurt you, but if you let them distract you, something else surely will.’ His words echoed out over the wide avenue, reaching the ears of every Stormcast. Those who had become distracted from their labours by the sudden appearance of the insubstantial daemonic shapes immediately went back to work.

  ‘Blasted nuisances,’ Gorgus muttered, eyeing the nearest of the daemonic shades. They came and went like shadows, rising from the detritus of battle before fading away once more. But they were staying longer each time, and they were appearing more often – a sure sign that the membrane between worlds was growing thin, as Lord-Relictor Moros claimed. At his feet, his Gryph-hound growled, the feathers on its neck fluffed out and as stiff as quills. ‘Easy, Shrike. Nothing there for you to get a beakful of, save some foul-smelling air,’ Gorgus said, stroking his companion’s angular skull.

  He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high. The light washed across the street, and the daemons cowered back from the golden rays. Their lean shapes came apart like a morning mist in the heat of the day. When he was satisfied that they had been driven back into whatever netherworld they had emerged from, at least for the moment, he lowered the lantern and cast his keen gaze over the street.

  The vast bulk of the Gnawing Gate was still visible behind them, and he could just make out the Judicators stationed on its sagging ramparts. Their golden war-plate glinted in the light of the conflagration, which even now consumed the western districts of Uryx, despite the heavy rains. Indeed, he suspected that the storm was the only thing keeping the flames from sweeping over the inner city. He looked up, letting the rain splash across his mask and helm.

  The storm was a grand thing, he thought. As savage and as powerful as the on
e that had marked his proving quest into the grim winterlands of the Boralis Mountains. Gorgus smiled at the thought. As an aspirant, he had scaled those storm-tossed peaks and braved the madness-inducing mists that clung to them, and returned to Sigmaron a Lord-Castellant.

  ‘And not alone, eh, Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. Those first few days, Shrike had hunted him through the crevasses and crags at the head of a pack of screeching Gryph-hounds – before they had come to an arrangement. ‘Bit off more than you could chew, didn’t you?’ Gorgus said. Shrike snapped at his armoured fingers, not quite playfully. Gorgus laughed, and turned his attentions to the defences his warriors were constructing.

  The Avenue of Ten Skulls stretched from the Gnawing Gate to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. It was the most direct route to the heart of the crater-city, according to Orius. As far as Gorgus was concerned, Uryx was a rat warren, and a confusing one at that. But he had faith in the Lord-Celestant – Orius would guide them to the enemy, and then to victory.

  Buildings had been demolished along either side of the avenue by the lightning hammers of the Retributors, creating improvised ramparts and bulwarks of rubble. Taller structures were left standing, so as to provide makeshift watchtowers and firing positions for his Judicator retinues. Now, the avenue was being divided into easily defensible killing fields by the strategic application of rubble. Anything that could be used to break up the momentum of a massed charge or a steady advance.

  That was the best way with the Bloodbound, Gorgus knew. He’d fought the slaves of Khorne often enough since the Adamantine had come to the Felstone Plains. He knew their way of war as well as his own. They relied on momentum – the sudden charge, the unrelenting assault. They sought to come to grips with the foe quickly. On the plains or in the geyser fields of the Hissing Gates, the Adamantine had been forced to rely on formation and discipline to deny the foe his true strength. But here, in this crowded city of stone and roots, they had a wealth of options. They could alter the map, and channel any sizeable force of Bloodbound towards heavily defended strongpoints, where their numbers and ferocity would avail them little.

  Thunderhead Brotherhoods had been stationed at these points, there to ensure the sanctity of the Adamantine lines and to repel any attack. They were also in place to ferry any refugees they found back towards the Mandrake Bastion, and safety. Hundreds of survivors had come stumbling from the jungle and the outer city, seeking sanctuary from the flames and the roving bands of skaven and bloodreavers. Many were led to safety by the Prosecutors winging their way out along the flanks of the advancing Warrior Chamber, on the orders of Orius himself.

  Shrike’s head came up, and the Gryph-hound gave an interrogative squawk. Gorgus turned and chuckled. ‘But speak, and they shall appear…’ he murmured. An old bit of folk-wisdom, left over from his mortal life.

  A ragged group of Klaxians stumbled along the avenue, shepherded by a number of Liberators. Prosecutors swooped overhead, keeping a sharp eye out for the enemy. ‘More of them,’ a nearby Judicator said.

  ‘Aye, and heartening it is,’ Gorgus said, extending his halberd towards the Stormcast. ‘It means our enemy is not half so diligent as we feared, Pyrus.’

  ‘But our lines are stretched thin as it is, Lord-Castellant,’ Pyrus said, undaunted. ‘How can we protect them all, if they keep coming?’ Gorgus smiled. The Lord-Castellant encouraged those warriors under his command to speak their mind, when appropriate, and Pyrus did so often, and at length, but never without cause.

  ‘How can we not, Pyrus?’ a Liberator spoke up, as the Klaxians were ushered into the centre of the avenue, where the bulk of the Stormcasts were at work. Korus, Gorgus thought, putting a name to the voice. If Pyrus was the voice of respectful challenge, then Korus was a rock of devotion. In him was a faith unwavering in the Stormcast cause. ‘Why else are we here, if not to protect the innocent, and smite the guilty?’

  ‘We are here to win victory in Sigmar’s name, Korus,’ Pyrus said. ‘This city – this kingdom – is steeped in the taint of Chaos. Even these innocents bear its mark, on their souls if not their bodies. Sigmar commands that we stamp Chaos out, wherever it lurks.’ He gestured towards the frightened huddle of Klaxians. Gorgus looked at them. Men and women, young and old. Children as well, though not many. All frightened, many wounded and some sick. They had not eaten in days, he thought, and fear had its claws deep in them. One of the children – a girl, her face marked by filth and bruises – met his gaze.

  ‘Sigmar is not simply the voice that thunders from the clouds, Pyrus. He is also the quiet voice that speaks within. The voice stripped of pride and bluster, leaving behind only that solitary light of purpose – we fight, brothers, to free these folk from the chains that bind. Chains of evil and malice, of fear and cowardice, of Chaos,’ Gorgus said.

  He sank to one knee and extended his hand towards the girl. ‘If we do not show them mercy, if we do not show them kindness, even in the midst of war, then we merely exchange one form of fear for another,’ he said, as the child stepped forward hesitantly. She took his hand and he scooped her up. One of the women, her mother he thought, made a noise, but it subsided as her companions held her. They could see that he meant the child no harm. ‘They have lived in the dark for so long. Would you deny them the chance to see the light?’

  Pyrus bowed his head. ‘No, Lord-Castellant. Better to die, than that.’

  ‘Yes, my brother. Better to die than to allow even one mortal soul to be lost to horrors of Chaos, if we can prevent it,’ Gorgus said. And we have all done so once already, otherwise we would not be here now, arrayed in sigmarite, he thought, as he looked down at the girl. For a moment, another child’s face superimposed itself over hers, and Gorgus felt an old pain rise anew. Shrike leaned against his leg, chirping softly, and Gorgus shook his head, banishing the memories before they could take form. The past was dust, and his mortal life with it.

  ‘Do not fear, child. We are the storm, and we have come to wash Klaxus clean,’ he rumbled. He looked up, as a shout echoed suddenly from farther up the street, in the direction of the Gnawing Gate. He saw a small group of Stormcasts – a Judicator and several Liberators – making their way towards him. The Judicator was helping one of the Liberators to walk, and all appeared to be wounded.

  ‘Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator called. ‘The enemy is upon us!’

  ‘Crasus, what has happened?’ Gorgus asked, as he handed the child to Korus. The Liberator held her awkwardly, as if afraid he might crush her tiny body.

  ‘The foe comes, Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator said, as he eased his burden down. The Liberator groaned and clutched at his side. Blood stained his golden armour. ‘They’ve broken through, pushed us back from the upper streets – they’re between us and the Gnawing Gate. My retinue harries them from the rooftops, but they do not slow, no matter how many we kill.’

  ‘Courage is the one virtue the foe have in abundance,’ Gorgus said, as he knelt beside the wounded Stormcast. He cast the glow of his warding lantern over the battered Liberator, and where it shone flesh healed and armour was restored. The warrior straightened, cleansed and reinvigorated by the holy light.

  ‘What are their numbers?’ Gorgus asked.

  ‘A few hundred, now. They gather in the side streets, and more flock to join them as they come… beast packs and lone warriors, straggling warbands and worse,’ Crasus said. ‘It looks like the remnants of every force we’ve smashed asunder since we started pushing out from the Mandrake Bastion. They do not seem to be organised. It is as if some instinct is driving them forward. They’re not far behind us. I…’ He trailed off as the sound of horns cut through the rain and wind. Monsters roared in the dark.

  Gorgus chuckled harshly. He’d expected as much, though not so soon. Unless they were eradicated utterly, the Bloodbound always returned. Once they recovered their courage, they attacked. There was no grand strategy, no tactical ma
sterstroke… simply blind malevolence, driving them towards those who had defeated them.

  ‘Chaos filth. The more you sweep it aside, the faster it congeals,’ he said, as he rose to his feet. He helped the newly healed Liberator to stand. ‘They wish to strike our rear. To surround us and drown us in bodies. We must teach them that the Adamantine do not fall for such ploys so easily. Crasus, take these Klaxians in hand – guide them to the Gnawing Gate. They’ll be as safe there as anywhere. Pyrus, Korus – help him. Rejoin your retinues when you can.’

  Stormcasts snapped to attention. The sound of horns rose higher and higher, and was joined by howls and bellows. The noise rose from the streets all around them, as if the enemy were converging from all sides.

  ‘The rest of you, lock shields and man the bulwarks! The enemy comes and I would not have him find us wanting,’ Gorgus roared. ‘They seek to break our lines, Adamantine. What do we say to that?’

  ‘We shall not break,’ the Stormcasts cried, as they moved into position. Liberators sank to one knee behind the lowest of the improvised bulwarks, and set the rims of their shields atop the piled stones. Judicators took position behind them, or else scaled those buildings that still stood in order to gain higher ground. Retributors and Decimators fell in around Gorgus. He would lead them in repelling any enemy who threatened to get past the shields of the Liberators. Overhead, Prosecutors sped towards the approaching enemy to slow their advance and shatter their courage.

  The very stones trembled with the noise of the approaching warhorde. The tramp of feet and hooves joined the clatter of weapons and the thump of barbaric drums. No, the enemy did not lack for courage, Gorgus thought. Such was the madness that gripped them, they would keep coming until the last of them was dead.

  ‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus shouted, over the noise of the approaching Bloodbound. ‘We shall hold. We shall push them back; we shall be the bastion upon which they break. Hold fast, Adamantine.’ He thumped the ground with his halberd. ‘Hold fast!’