[Warhammer] - Blood for the Blood God Read online

  A sad look came over Enek Zjarr’s countenance. “No, I fear that would avail us nothing. The other chieftains will not acknowledge the menace, which threatens us all, until it is too late. Their heads will hang from the Skulltaker’s belt before they will listen.”

  “And you think I will?” Hutga challenged.

  “You, at least, are aware of what it is that stalks these lands,” Enek Zjarr said. “You know it is the Skulltaker, returned to claim the flesh of Teiyogtei, to cut the legacy of the king from the bellies of his warlords. You know that the Skulltaker is a foe that no man, not even a chieftain, may face in battle. Tell me, Hutga Khagan, did you plan to flee the domain with your tribe or withdraw to the burial grounds of your race and make a final hopeless stand against an unbeatable enemy?”

  Hutga clenched his fist, growling at the sneering sorcerer. “It is better to die fighting than die running!”

  Enek Zjarr bowed by way of apology. “What if I told you there was a third path you could take, a path that could save your people and destroy the Skulltaker?”

  “I would call such claims the crooked lies of a Hung,” Hutga replied, his voice as cold as the iron nodules beneath his skin.

  “One does not need to tell lies to a dead man,” Enek Zjarr said plainly. “Only united could the tribes have met our enemy in battle with any hope of success. Before we were even aware of the threat, two of our number were already dead. Six, perhaps, might have been enough, for that number is sacred to Lashor, Khorne’s most dire adversary among the gods, but the others would not lay aside their quarrels long enough to confront our foe.”

  “And you have found a way to destroy the Skulltaker without the others?” Hutga scoffed.

  “Indeed,” Enek Zjarr replied. “After the council dispersed, I returned to my palace and consulted my familiar spirits. My imps and daemons searched the forbidden places of the ethereal world, long into the night, hunting for the knowledge I required. Shall I tell you what I discovered?” Hutga made a surly motion with his hand, impatient for the sorcerer to speak his piece. “They told me there is a way, dangerous, perhaps as deadly as the Skulltaker himself, but a way nonetheless.”

  “Teiyogtei Khagan could not kill the Skulltaker,” observed Yorool. The shaman had been crouching before Hutga’s throne, muttering prayers of protection against any sorcery Enek Zjarr thought to visit upon his chieftain. Now, the sorcerer’s presumption broke Yorool’s concentration. He pointed an indignant finger at the Hung wizard. “If the great king could not kill him, nothing mortal can!”

  “Ah,” cooed the sorcerer, “but our vanquished king did kill the Skulltaker. It was the will of Khorne that the monster did not stay dead. Perhaps Khorne will be less indulgent if his champion falls a second time.”

  Enek Zjarr paused, letting his words sink in. “The Bloodeater was born in the Black Altar, created from the raw hate of a fallen daemon. Before he descended upon the Shadowlands, Teiyogtei Khagan created the Black Altar from the corpse of a daemon and used its raging spirit to craft the weapons of power he would later use to bind the loyalty of his warlords and build his mighty horde. He kept the most powerful magic for himself, however, binding it into his own Bloodeater. Alone, the weapon was powerful enough to vanquish the Skulltaker, to destroy his mortal shell and banish him from the lands of the domain for five hundred and twelve generations of men!”

  Hutga shook his head. The sorcerer was mad. “The Black Altar lies deep within the Wastes, if it still exists at all. It is daring the wrath of the gods for a man to challenge the Wastes, worse than suicide for any who would try.”

  “Are the chances for life so very good with the threat of the Skulltaker looming overhead?” observed Sanya. “He serves the Blood God, seeking to deliver the domain to Khorne’s hunger. But for the strength of Teiyogtei, this land and all within it would have been devoured by the Skull Lord long ago, sucked down into his world of blood and slaughter. Now, Khorne again stretches his hand to claim what the king tried to keep from him!”

  “Even if the Black Altar could be found,” protested Yorool, “the Bloodeater was broken by the Skulltaker in his battle with Teiyogtei.”

  “What has been broken can be reforged,” said Enek Zjarr. “The shards of Teiyogtei’s sword lie within his barrow. If they were gathered, if they were taken to the Black Altar, the blade could be remade.”

  Hutga considered the sorcerer’s claims, scratching his chin as he mulled over the Hung’s words. He concentrated not only on what Enek Zjarr said, but what he left unsaid. “Why do you need me?” the chieftain asked. “For that matter, how do I know it is Enek Zjarr I meet with and not a sorcerer’s simulacrum?”

  Enek Zjarr’s face twisted into a withering scowl. “Do you think I would trust a doppelganger with Soulchewer?” he snarled, letting the butt of his weapon smack against the floor of the yurt. “If I had a choice, do you think I would come here, begging the aid of a filthy Tong warlord and his brood of mammoth-suckling whelps! I come to you because I need you, because to get the shards of the Bloodeater I must go to the one place in the domain where my powers are useless! The mark of Khorne is upon the tomb of Teiyogtei Khagan and no magic can overcome the Blood God’s curse. It is men of swords, not sorcery, that are needed to prevail against the guardian of the tomb. Strong in magic, alas the Sul have no affinity for base weapons of blade and bludgeon.”

  That at least sounded like the truth to Hutga’s ears. Whatever schemes the Sul might be plotting, there was one fact even the sorcerers could not escape: the Skulltaker was after them as much as he was the other tribes. If Enek Zjarr had truly divined a way to fight the Skulltaker, Hutga owed it to his people to investigate the claim. He motioned to one of his attendants, pointing to a heavy flagon hanging from the hide wall.

  “We will drink the venom of alliance,” the khagan decided, locking eyes with Enek Zjarr, looking for any last sign of deception. He grunted derisively. The Sul were such masters of treachery that they wore their faces like the mask of a Muhak when they wanted to hide something.

  There was no hesitancy in Enek Zjarr as he accepted the flagon, drawing a deep draught of syrupy amber liquid from the leather jug. The venom of alliance was an old tradition among the tribes, a powerful poison that each tribe brewed from the venom of stalk-spiders and the spores of fungi. The combination was unique to each tribe, requiring its own antidote known only to the shamans.

  If the chieftain seeking alliance broke his word, the offended tribe would withhold the antidote, condemning him to months of excruciating agony as the poison ravaged his body. It was not potent enough to kill, no poison was strong enough to kill one who bore the daemon weapons of Teiyogtei, but the pain was enough to make even a chieftain wish for death.

  “You are satisfied?” Enek Zjarr asked, wiping amber poison from his lips.

  “I will be when we have journeyed to the monolith and I see for myself the shards of Teiyogtei’s sword,” Hutga answered. “Twenty of my best warriors will go with us… for protection.”

  “Forty would be better,” interrupted Sanya.

  Hutga laughed at the woman. “Forty men just to deal with that Norscan swine Alfkaell? We are warriors, wench, not feeble Sul mystics!”

  Enek Zjarr simply smiled at the khagan’s boast. “Who said the Norscan is the only guardian of the tomb?”

  The sorcerer’s warning echoed in the silence that suddenly filled the yurt.

  Blood bubbled from Zar Csaba’s mouth as he slowly, painfully crawled across the courtyard. Cast down with the walls of his fortress, the chieftain had been smashed beneath the rubble, his back broken by the heavy iron debris. All around him, he could hear the moans and cries of his people still buried in the ruins, calling out for help that would never come. Those still whole were scattering across the plains, fleeing before the ghastly being who had brought destruction upon their fortress.

  Csaba stabbed his fingers into the dirt, dragging his battered body across the ground. He ground his teeth against the pain.
He was one of the eight warlords of Teiyogtei, flesh of the great king. The legacy he had drawn into himself when he became zar of the Gahhuks would sustain him, would heal even a broken back over time. He could rise from his ruin as strong as before, if he could escape. It was not the Skulltaker alone who menaced him now. Weak and crippled, Csaba had to fear his own tribesmen. Any one of them might seize the opportunity to kill their zar and become chief of all the Gahhuks.

  Thinking about his many enemies, Csaba slumped against the ground. He reached to his belt, dragging his fat-bladed sword from its horsehair scabbard. The hilt of the weapon felt cold and strong against his palm, reassuring the Kurgan’s flagging spirits.

  An armoured boot crunched down upon Csaba’s hand, grinding its heel against his fingers. The dadao slipped from his grip, clattering against the ground. The zar looked up, finding himself looking into the pitiless death-mask of his executioner. Blood flew from Csaba’s mouth as he spat his defiance at the grim apparition.

  The Skulltaker’s black blade came sweeping down, ending the reign of Zar Csaba Daemontamer.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The crimson hill and its sinister monolith were no less forbidding than the last time Dorgo had seen them. The air of menace and antiquity still impressed itself upon his senses, the feeling that something unseen was watching his every move, watching and waiting for the opportunity to strike. He could see the same unease on the faces of the other Tsavag warriors as they climbed the red slopes of the hill.

  Bold against any mortal foe, this place of the dead king oppressed their spirits. Boasts of past battles, rude curses against the enemies of the tribe, these went unsaid as the men trudged up the silent slopes beneath the black mantle of the night sky.

  The Sul sorcerer-kahn and his apprentice marched among the Tsavags. The silence that surrounded the Hung was different from that of the warriors around them, expectant rather than fearful. There was no deciphering the enigmatic expressions the two wore, serene as clay effigies. If Enek Zjarr thought to put his reluctant allies at ease with his placid indifference, the sorcerer had miscalculated. Togmol followed close behind the two Sul, an axe at the ready. Hutga had given the warrior the strictest of commands. Any sign of treachery was to be dealt with swiftly.

  At the top of the hill, the giant stone monolith still towered over the men, seeming to have grown over the course of their ascent. The black entrance of Teiyogtei’s tomb yawned beneath its base, a gaping wound in the blood-hued hill. The smell of death rose from the hole, a carrion reek that had even the Tsavags clapping hands to their noses as they approached.

  “Beware the Norscan!” hissed Sanya.

  Both of the Sul had drawn back, placing the mass of Hutga’s warriors between them and the tomb. Dorgo remembered Enek Zjarr’s claim that their sorcery would not work within the tomb, that it was a place sacred to Khorne and as such was anathema to all magics. He remembered too the warning Yorool had impressed upon all the Tsavags. The war-priests of Khorne were not like shamans who served other gods. Their power was not that of spells, but the strength of steel and battle. Few men could hope to match a war-priest in combat for there was no trick of sword or axe that had not been revealed to them by the Blood God.

  “Why should such a formidable warband fear a lone outlander?”

  The mocking voice rose from the darkness of the pit, its tones clipped by the heavy Norscan accent. Alfkaell emerged from his subterranean burrow, his elfin helm gleaming in the starlight. If the faces of the Sul sorcerers had been enigmatic there was no mistaking the amused contempt written across that of the Aesling.

  “Forty Tsavag warriors and their chieftain,” the war-priest continued. The nearest of those warriors backed away at his approach. “With the magics of the mighty Sul to make a mockery of honest battle,” he added, jabbing the point of his spear in the direction of Enek Zjarr and his apprentice. “Surely such a union of strength and treachery has nothing to fear from a single man, whoever he might be.”

  Alfkaell’s sneering voice reminded the warriors surrounding him of their doubts and fears. Distrust of the Sul brought more than one face turning towards the sorcerers. Fear of the Skulltaker made the skin crawl on the necks of others. Where was the monster Alfkaell so casually evoked? What people did he stalk on his grim hunt?

  “We have come here for Teiyogtei’s sword,” Hutga said, brandishing his ji. The khagan knew he had to take command of the situation before Alfkaell’s caustic mockery undermined the courage of his already anxious warriors. He was pleased to see men stand their ground as the war-priest came still nearer, emboldened by their chieftain’s voice. “Do not stand in our way, outlander,” he warned.

  The Norscan laughed, a sound like wolves tearing flesh. “Who moves you to such folly, Hutga Khagan? Do the Tsavag listen to the lies of the Sul?” Alfkaell gestured at Enek Zjarr with the blade of his spear once more. “Ask your new friend if he knows what awaits you in the tomb of the king. See if he dares share the danger he would ask you to brave.”

  Hutga rounded on the Sul kahn. The mask of placid serenity had dropped away from Enek Zjarr’s face, replaced by an expression of rage. The sorcerer’s hand tightened around the shaft of the naginta he carried, the sacred weapon of his people. Almost, it seemed, the kahn was going to rise to the Norscan’s baiting tones.

  “What of it, sorcerer?” Hutga demanded. “Is there something that threatens us?”

  “No tomb is without its guardians,” Enek Zjarr replied acidly. “What man can say what manner of abominations have been called up by this outlander and his predecessors down through the years?”

  The protest was too quick and too hollow to be convincing. The attitudes of the Tsavag warriors darkened. Men turned away from Alfkaell, re-evaluating which was the greater threat: Sul or Norscan.

  “Suppose we find out together, wizard?” Hutga growled.

  Enek Zjarr recoiled at the suggestion. “I have told you, my spells will not work within the tomb. Why else do you think I need your help?”

  “Share in the rewards and not the risks?” scoffed Hutga. “You strike a poor bargain with your allies.”

  Dorgo could feel the atmosphere of distrust and menace swelling around him, reaching a point of no return. Most of the warriors had turned on the two Sul, blades that had moments before menaced Alfkaell now pointed at the Hung. He glanced at the war-priest, marking the gloating amusement with which the Norscan watched the disagreement escalate. As much a creature of Khorne as the Skulltaker, it no doubt pleased Alfkaell to see this chance to stop the monster’s rampage, killed before it could even begin.

  “Wait,” Dorgo told his father as Hutga started to sling further accusations of treachery against Enek Zjarr. “If the sorcerer will not enter the tomb, then let him send a surrogate in his stead.” He stared into the kahn’s cold eyes. “A symbol of his trust and faith in his allies.”

  “Of course,” Enek Zjarr smiled. “Such is only to be expected.” His hand closed around Sanya’s shoulder, pushing the woman towards Hutga. “My apprentice will go in my stead, a measure of my faith in your abilities to bring the Bloodeater… and my dear little flower… back safely from the crypt.”

  Sanya glared at the sorcerer, looking for the moment as though she would fling herself at her master. Dorgo laid a restraining hand on the woman’s arm, flinching as her withering stare focused upon him. He found himself hoping that whatever power blocked Enek Zjarr’s sorcery applied to his consort as well.

  “I am afraid, sorcerer, that it was not your woman I spoke of,” Dorgo said. “A more substantial measure of your trust is needed to satisfy the Tsavag.”

  The eyes of both of the Sul smouldered like embers of hate as they fixed upon Dorgo. Sanya’s hand came up, scratching at his face. Dorgo caught the slender arm, pinning it to her side. He laughed openly as the witch struggled in his grip, making a show of his contempt for her magic, trusting that the display would not be lost on his tribesmen. Fears of sorcerous retribution could wait.

>   “What my son means,” Hutga’s stern voice intoned as the khagan caught the intention behind Dorgo’s words, “is that we need something you cannot replace. Give me Soulchewer to take down into the pit and I’ll trust you to remain above.” Hutga watched Enek Zjarr’s face contort with outrage. “Otherwise our pact concludes here. The Bloodeater remains with Teiyogtei’s bones and our tribes must face the Skulltaker alone.”

  Sanya accompanied the Tsavag warriors down into the mouldering tomb. She had been compelled to by her master. It was with great reluctance that Enek Zjarr had given over his naginta. Even then, he had not trusted the weapon to Hutga or any of the Tong, but had insisted that Sanya carry it. The look of hate and betrayal the woman gave him caused Dorgo to wonder at the sorcerer’s foolishness in entrusting the weapon to her. It also impressed upon the warrior something else, something his father had suspected: Enek Zjarr knew what kind of menace lurked in the tomb. That it could cause even a sorcerer such fear did not reassure him.

  The sorcerer had remained behind, along with a pair of Tsavags who understood what was expected of them should the others not return. Alfkaell had stayed above as well, sitting upon one of the rocks, chuckling evilly as the expedition descended into the barrow.

  Candles of mammoth fat carried by every third warrior illuminated the blackness of the tomb. The stink of death was overwhelming, bringing tears to the eyes of the men. They were forced to linger in the barren antechamber of the tomb, letting their senses become accustomed enough to the reek to allow them to proceed. Dorgo thought he heard something, a curious shuffling sound just audible beneath the gagging, retching disorder of the other warriors. Ulagan appeared to hear it as well, his brow knitting in concentration.

  “When we enter the tomb,” cautioned Sanya, her voice a fearful whisper, “be careful of the walls. Touch nothing unless it be the Bloodeater itself.” The witch swayed weakly, using the bronze haft of the naginta for support. Some false show of weakness on her part, or was it evidence of the magic-negating influence within the tomb?