[Warhammer] - Blood for the Blood God Read online

  The Tong emissaries were among the last to arrive. Nhaa and Ratha had preceded them up the hill. Two of the other chieftains were already there, resting upon jumbles of red-veined granite. They sat far apart, their companions glaring at one another, waiting for an excuse to strike.

  The first to catch Hutga’s gaze was Csaba, the zar of the Gahhuks, one of the Kurgan tribes. Csaba was lighter of build than Ratha, though his skin bore the same bronze hue and his hair the same dark cast. Csaba’s armour was simple, strips of leather studded with spikes of iron, his helm open at the face and bereft of adornment save for the horns stabbing outward from its sides.

  The Gahhuks were horsemen, priding themselves on their speed and craft. Moreover, armour would hide the chief conceit of the tribe. From crown to foot, the Gahhuks tattooed their bodies, each swirling pattern of lines and circles denoting some great deed the warrior had accomplished.

  Csaba, as chieftain, had skin that was nearly black from all the boasts inked into his flesh. Upon their backs, both Csaba and his companion wore bamboo frames across which were stretched flayed skins, each sporting the distinctive Gahhuk tattoos. These were the boldest of their displays, grisly back-banners that incorporated the flayed skin of an enemy defeated in single combat.

  No Gahhuk youth was allowed to become a full warrior until he had slain another Gahhuk and stretched his skin upon a bamboo frame.

  The other chieftain was Tulka of the Seifan, a tribe of the Hung. Tulka was shorter than the Kurgans around him, but stoutly built and with a panther-like toughness in his wiry limbs. The kahn’s skull was misshapen, lacking the symmetry of a healthy man, with a cluster of eyes peppering his forehead and cheeks. Unlike the dusky hues common to the Seifan, his hair was like spun frost, cascading around his shoulders in glacial streams. The lengthy moustache that fell from his otherwise shaven face was likewise a shocking blue, the tips trapped inside little beads of jade.

  The man with Tulka was not unknown to Hutga. Taller than his kahn, with an almost reptilian broadness around his features, Shen was Tulka’s war chief and lieutenant. In the treacherous ways of the Hung, Shen was at once his most trusted underling and his most despised rival. Unlike Csaba and his guard, the Seifan wore elaborate suits of lamellar armour, the scales of copper and iron woven together with thick strips of leather. Round helmets with skirts of copper chain rested on their heads, snakeskin plumes draping down from their peaked crowns.

  Beyond the two chiefs, Hutga could see Nhaa, the beastlord perched atop a rock, looking as though it might pounce onto the men around it at any moment. Unlike the others, it appeared that Nhaa had come alone, perhaps as a display of its contempt for its human enemies. For all Hutga knew, the vile creature might have eaten any comrade it had planned to bring with it!

  Ratha assumed a place as near to the monolith as possible, defiantly planting his standard in the red earth. Hutga shook his head at the Vaan’s bravado. The crypt of Teiyogtei lie beneath the monolith, and the sounds that rose up from the subterranean tomb could not be explained away by the presence of the priest who tended it. Someday, Ratha’s arrogance would be his downfall. Hutga hoped he was there when something reached up from underground and dragged the Kurgan below.

  The last men upon the hill were two Muhaks, their faces hidden beneath masks of tanned flesh, their muscle-ridden bodies a network of scars, naked save for the leather breech-clouts and fur capes they wore.

  Hutga was puzzled by the presence of the Muhak, wondering if perhaps one of them was the successor to Lok. Neither bore the fallen zar’s mattock, nor was there the same sense of power that was discernible even in a debased creature like Nhaa. Moreover, the Muhaks were visibly ill-at-ease.

  The clatter of rocks and a sharp curse from Ratha pulled Hutga’s attention away from the Muhak emissaries. He saw the Vaan chieftain backing away from the monolith, scowling as something emerged from the pit below. Any hope that the spirits of the tomb were at last reaching out to claim the Vaan were quickly dashed.

  It was no spectre of the grave that emerged into the light, but the tall, thin figure of the war-priest who tended the shrine. There had always been a war-priest watching over Teiyogtei’s bones, always an outlander, always entering the domain alone.

  The war-priests never left the hill. How they found food or took water was a mystery to the tribes. Even more of a mystery was how a new priest knew to make the pilgrimage to the monolith, to take up the lonely vigil when his predecessor died. Many whispered that Khorne spoke to them in their dreams and guided their steps through these bloody visions.

  The war-priest was garbed in a long, tattered cloak of bearskin, its surface painted with gory runes and sigils. A tall, narrow helm of silvery metal framed his thin face. The beard that fell across his neck was a vivid red, the colour of rubies and blood. In his slender hands he carried a long staff of gnarled wood, a slim blade of the same silvery alloy as his helm lashed around its tip.

  The outlander was of a people neither Hung nor Kurgan nor Tong; a Norscan from a land far beyond the boundaries of the domain, beyond even the Shadowlands. Alfkaell the Aesling had come far to answer the call of Khorne, lurking within the solitude of Teiyogtei’s tomb through the long years, waiting with a fanatic’s patience to hear the voice of his god again.

  The Norscan simply scowled at the men gathered around the hilltop. He removed an object from beneath his cloak, the yellowing brainpan of a skull. Alfkaell stalked towards Ratha, waiting expectantly for the Kurgan to remove the talisman he wore around his neck. A finger-length spike of ruby, a shard from the Blood-Crown of Teiyogtei, the gem rattled as it fell into the macabre bowl.

  The war-priest sneered at the zar, and then turned and marched to the other chieftains. By turns, Tulka and Csaba both presented their talismans to the war-priest. When he reached the Muhak emissaries, however, the new zar hesitated before dropping his talisman into the skull, holding it in such a way that it was hidden from view by his hand.

  Alfkaell backed away, a murderous grin splitting his face. With one hand, he reached into the skull, lifting from it a finger-sized piece of painted stone. His other hand swept forwards, driving the tip of his spear-staff into the breast of the Muhak who had tried to pass the false talisman. Dark heart’s blood spurted down the length of the staff as Alfkaell pierced the Kurgan, wrenching his blade savagely in the wound.

  “Blasphemer,” the Norscan snarled, the dying Muhak hanging from his spear like a piece of spitted meat.

  At the cry, the other Muhak turned to flee. Instantly, Nhaa leapt down from its stone, scrambling after the man with bestial glee. The two Seifan added their own part to the savage scene, tripping the Muhak with their long axes. They laughed as Nhaa’s weight smashed down into the prone, screaming man. The beastman’s bronze claws slashed through the Kurgan’s powerful shoulders, crunching into the bones beneath.

  With frenzied slashes, the gor dug deep into its victim’s body, relenting only when it pulled something wet and glistening from the quivering wretch. Nhaa’s fangs tore into the stringy mess of tissue and it turned away, leaving the man to bleed out.

  “What trick does that scum Lok think to try?” Csaba observed, stabbing a finger at the dead Muhaks. “Why did he not come himself? What was he thinking, trying to pass those fools off on us?”

  “Lok thinks nothing, brothers.” Every man upon the hill spun as the voice seemed to materialise from nowhere. Where a moment before had been only broken rock and barren hill, stood two figures. One was the tall, robed shape of Enek Zjarr, kahn of the Sul. Behind him stood a smaller, slighter figure, a woman with the dark hair and sallow features of the Sul. Like Enek Zjarr, her robes were covered in mystical symbols, and a riot of amulets and charms hung around her neck.

  “Lok did not come, because Lok is dead,” Enek Zjarr continued. He strode forwards, boldly marching into the centre of the hilltop. Almost contemptuously, he dropped his talisman into the skull held by Alfkaell. The war-priest glared back at him, annoyed by this man,
who refused to be intimidated by his strange powers. It was a dangerous thing to tempt the ire of Alfkaell. Unlike the chieftains, he was not bound by any taboo to honour the truce of the gathering.

  The sorcerer’s statement brought exclamations of disbelief from the other chieftains, each alarmed by Enek Zjarr’s words. Hutga could guess their thoughts: Enek Zjarr had managed to tip the balance, had found a way to defy prophecy and kill another chieftain. He’d gathered them here to boast of his accomplishment and to threaten the other tribes with his new power.

  Hutga’s shock was of a different nature. Already aware of the Muhak zar’s death, his surprise lay in Enek Zjarr’s awareness of the event. It was eerie proof of the efficacy of the sorcerer’s arcane powers.

  Ratha was the quickest to compose himself. Hands locked around the haft of his mancatcher, the Vaan snarled at the sorcerer. “What trickery is this, warlock? What lies are these on your crooked tongue?”

  Csaba lifted his broad-axe, the moon-like blade glistening in the sunlight. His voice joined that of his fellow zar. “Dare your spells against me, wizard, and you’ll find a Gahhuk tougher to kill than a miserable Muhak!”

  Nhaa loped towards the sorcerer, its fighting claws bared, its fangs exposed in a feral grin. Tulka leaned back, his eyes hooded as he watched the situation unfold, the immense dadao still sheathed at his side. The treacherous Hung was waiting to see which way the wind would blow before committing himself. Similarly, Alfkaell kept his distance, brutal amusement on his face, clearly enjoying the spectacle of watching the chieftains slaughter one another.

  “It is no trick!” Hutga roared. The chieftains glanced his way, trying to keep one eye on the Sul emissaries. While he had their attention, Hutga hurried to speak. “My son saw Lok die,” he said, gesturing to Dorgo. “It was not Enek Zjarr who killed him, but an outlander.” The khagan’s voice dropped into an awed hiss. “It was the Skulltaker.”

  Silence once again hovered over the hill for a moment, as the chieftains worked their minds around Hutga’s statement. Again, it was Ratha who was first to speak.

  “The Skulltaker is a myth,” the zar sneered, “a bogey man to frighten children.” He gestured with his mancatcher at Enek Zjarr. “If Lok is dead, it was this dog’s black sorcery that killed him.”

  Dorgo drew his sword, stepping around his father to brandish the weapon at Ratha. “Call me a liar again, Kurgan, and the Muhak won’t be the only tribe without a leader!”

  “They aren’t,” Enek Zjarr said. “The Veh-Kung no longer have a kahn.”

  “Bleda?” Tulka asked, suspicion in his tones. “You are telling us Bleda is dead?”

  “Even for a wizard, bearding that fat maggot in his damnable desert would be a fine trick!” Ratha scoffed. A dangerous thought came to him. “Unless he was killed away from the desert, lured by the words of the Sul!”

  Rage flickered across Enek Zjarr’s face. The sorcerer’s hand twisted into a claw, gripping something unseen. Light flickered around the Sul’s fingers and a blackened shaft of metal with a bronze, bladed head suddenly manifested in the sorcerer’s grip.

  He leaned on the naginta, the dreaded spear-axe that was Teiyogtei’s gift to the Sul. “Do not bait me, Kurgan, or the Skulltaker will not need to seek your head!”

  The sorcerer’s threat did not faze Ratha, but the menacing words did give Csaba and Tulka pause. Nhaa backed away from the display of sorcery, the fur on its back bristling as it retreated. Hutga shook his head, disgusted. The tribes had warred for so long against one another, so long had they plotted and schemed that even faced by a common foe, they couldn’t set aside their animosity.

  Still, for the good of his people, for the good of all their people, he had to try.

  Hutga stepped forwards, putting himself between the sorcerer and the zar. He glared at Ratha, and then at Enek Zjarr. “You have seen the doom that threatens all of us,” Hutga scolded the sorcerer. “By your words, I gather he has taken the head of Bleda to hang beside that of Lok.” Enek Zjarr nodded, confirming Hutga’s supposition. “Then there can be no doubt that the Skulltaker means to kill us all. If we are to stop him, we must work together, not spend ourselves on petty squabbles!”

  “Ally with the Sul?” Ratha spat. “I’d sooner trust Nhaa with my children and a cooking pot!” The oath brought a snide laugh from Tulka and a warning growl from the beastlord.

  “If the Skulltaker has come back, he won’t stop with the Veh-Kung and Muhak!” Csaba shouted, an element of fear in his voice. “Hutga is right, he’ll be after all our heads!”

  Tulka laughed at the Gahhuk. “Because the Tong has been deceived by the sorcerer doesn’t mean I have to play the fool! If I’d known you were such an idiot, Csaba, I would have invaded your lands long ago!”

  Csaba bristled at the Seifan’s taunt, the guard behind him stalking towards Tulka and Shen. The two Hung simply grinned back, sharing a sly look, fingers tightening around their swords.

  Harsh laughter rolled across the hilltop. The furious chieftains turned to scowl at Alfkaell. The Norscan priest stood in the shadow of the monolith, a cruel smile behind his beard. Without ceremony, he dumped the ruby talismans onto the ground.

  “Such brotherhood and trust among the blood of Teiyogtei,” the war-priest hissed. “Such unity of purpose! Such lofty vision! Even when the wolf prowls inside the tent, still you argue over who gets the warmest blanket: the heirs of Teiyogtei, the men chosen by the great king to inherit his domain and guard it against the gods!”

  Alfkaell shook his head. “Better he had bent his knee to the Blood God and begged his mercy than leave his legacy in the hands of such fools! Even united, do you think you could stand against the Skulltaker? He will kill you all and set your heads before the Skull Throne! Khorne will consume the land Teiyogtei promised to him, the domain he tried to cheat from a god!”

  “Scatter or stand,” Alfkaell laughed, turning and stalking back into the crypt beneath the monolith. “It will not matter. You are all going to die.”

  The chieftains were silent, watching until the war-priest had vanished from sight. The Norscan’s malevolent laughter continued to drift back to them. Ratha scowled, spitting at the war-priest’s footprints.

  “Outland scum! We’ll see who will run and hide!” he raged. “No man, no daemon, has ever been able to face the Vaan on the field of battle! This Skulltaker will be ground beneath our axes and it will be his head, not mine that will sit before the Skull Throne!”

  Ratha’s oath brought similar boasts from the other chieftains, each declaring their defiance of the Skulltaker, but any illusion of consensus was quickly shattered when they started to discuss plans for joining their forces. The council degenerated quickly into threats and curses, old suspicions and old hates rising again to the fore.

  Hutga turned away, motioning for Dorgo to follow him. There was nothing more to discuss. Alliance between the tribes was impossible, the leaders too petty to set aside their differences for the common good. As he made his way back down the hillside, Hutga remembered Alfkaell’s daemonic mirth, the war-priest’s words about the land passing into the Blood God’s realm. The ancient legends claimed that the domain Teiyogtei conquered had been vibrant and fertile. The ruins of that prosperity littered the landscape. After the Skulltaker killed him, the land had been scourged, hellish places like the Desert of Mirrors and the Grey springing into existence as the fell power of the Wastes washed over the domain.

  If the Skulltaker were to kill the men who were Teiyogtei’s heirs, those who bore the blood of the khagan within them, what greater perversion might be visited upon the land? Could the domain truly be consumed by the Blood God?

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was a cruel smile on Zar Csaba Daemontamer’s face as he rode away from Teiyogtei’s hill. A plan had occurred to the Kurgan chieftain as he listened to the other chieftains squabble. He had lost no time abandoning the bickering council, hurrying back to where his riders waited for him to return. With indecent haste, t
hey lashed their tall, powerful stallions to their best effort, hurrying through the narrow passes between the mountains.

  It was not fear of attack that filled Csaba with such urgency, but the opportunity that fired his mind. He did not believe Enek Zjarr’s outlandish claims that the Skulltaker had killed Lok for an instant, even if the Tong fool Hutga had been taken in by the sorcerer. Something had clearly happened to the Muhak zar, however. He would never have sent minions to the gathering. Whatever devilry Enek Zjarr had worked with his black magic, Csaba was certain of one thing: the Muhak were weak, weaker perhaps than they had ever been. Without their chieftain they were vulnerable and ripe for conquest: sheep waiting for the wolves.

  Csaba licked his lips as he imagined his riders sweeping down on the Muhak villages, enslaving the muscle-bound oafs before they even knew they were under attack. With the strength of the Muhak his to command, with their lands added to his own, the Gahhuk would become a major force in the domain, equal to the mighty Vaan and the mammoth-riding Tsavags.

  He would use that strength, use it to annihilate the filthy Seifan. No more would the Hung raid his lands, stealing women and cattle. They would be broken upon the blades of the Gahhuk host.

  The bloody visions that filled Csaba’s mind turned sour when he reflected that others at the council could not have failed to see the same opportunities that he had seen. The Vaan were too far away to act quickly, for there were few horsemen among the great army that Ratha commanded.

  Nhaa and his warherd were bound to the Grey, twisted by the ghastly power of their dark home until only the strongest of them could endure the light of the sun for any considerable time. Hutga was convinced that the Skulltaker had killed Lok and he would be preparing his people to ward off the legendary wraith.

  Thinking of the Sul gave Csaba pause. Who could say what sinister plot the damnable sorcerers were unfolding?

  The mind of a Hung was crooked enough, but when it was further twisted by the dark arts it became a maze that no one could travel. Perhaps Enek Zjarr had somehow orchestrated Lok’s death, perhaps his bold claim that Bleda was dead was also truth rather than deception.