OFFERING2

He should have known Khorne would not make the journey a simple one. The Blood God was always testing His Chosen ones, to be certain that His picked warriors were the best. Weakness of any kind was not tolerated. A Chosen must expect his Patron to place him in constant peril to prove himself.

Therefore the current situation should have come as no surprise. It did, but it shouldn't have.

In the night, as he'd expected, Lyudmila had departed. She had done so face to face, knowing that if he challenged she had a fair chance at victory, and if he did not she would win anyway. Chirard had decided not to challenge. He would have enjoyed testing himself against her but there was simply no time. Some new instinct told him he had to hurry, that if he did not reach the Brass Mountain soon, all would be lost. So, he had let her go, along with twelve of his very best warriors, including (to his surprise) Teron Bloodfiend. Bloodfiend had apparently decided that the Brass Mountain was no place for a worshipper of Chaos Undivided, and would seek his fortunes elsewhere. This left Chirard's force weakened in numbers, but strengthened in resolve. Now there was no one here who did not choose to be.

The trouble had continued the next day, as a vast raiding party from Zharr-Nagrund had been sighted, about a mile ahead. It was rare indeed for the Chaos Dwarfs to come to the wastes. There were few resources here they considered valuable, and Chaos worshippers made notably intractable slaves. Obviously, then, they had come here at the service of their own Chaos God, the minor deity of greed and darkness Hashut. The Bull-God was clearly trying to interfere in the affairs of Khorne, but was in truth no doubt a pawn of one of the Great Powers. Perhaps Khorne's enemies sought to deprive him of another Ascended One. Then again, perhaps Khorne Himself chose to test his Chosen. Chirard did not concern himself with Godmatters, only with war.

He raised the ancient warcry, known and feared throughout all the world, soon echoed from sixty-six other throats:

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"

Chirard and his band charged forward, moving even faster than before at the prospect of bloodshed. They were outnumbered almost three to one, but Chirard was confident of victory for a number of reasons. First, the Chaos Dwarfs were unused to the strange nature of the wastes. The very sky (which today fluctuated between gold and red) seemed to confuse them. Second, although the enemy far outnumbered the Khornate force the quality of the troops was on the side of the Blood God. Chirard's warband was composed of the most berserk and gifted warriors he'd been able to find. While the Chaos Dwarfs themselves were worthy foes, the bulk of their force was made up of Hobgoblins. The weak, cowardly greenskins would break the instant that victory was in question.

Chirard was, as always, at the front of his forces. Consequently he had first choice of opponents. HE chose as he charged, thinking of which foes death would please Khorne the most. He was torn momentarily between a Sorcerer and a Bull-Centaur. The Sorcerer was a magic-user, and thus anathema to the Lord of Battle, but the Centaur was the worthier opponent. In the end he settled on the centaur. He'd never fought one before, and he was curious as to what its death-scream would sound like.

The Centaur met the Chosen' charge head-on. There was no fear in its mind, for it too was Chosen. Until fairly recently it had been a Chaos Dwarf warrior named Halkmir Haljersson. Halkmir had been a terrifying warrior of Hashut, his kill-tally in Zharr-Nagrund having long ago reached two hundred, at which point he had stopped counting. He had finally been rewarded with the greatest gift the Father Of Darkness could bestow, the change into a Bull-Centaur. Now its (for it was no longer of ANY gender, having no sexual desires) upper body was human-sized but retained its original proportions (this meant its arms were as thick as some mens waists), but the lower body was that of a great, golden-brown bull. It had come on this raid to ensure its success in probing the strengths of the Lesser Powers, in the hopes of one day conquering them for Hashut. Now, it would fulfill its task.

The battle was short. The Centaur was strong and fast, but relatively young, and unused to fighting against an enemy who did not fear death or pain. Consequently, its blows were not parried, blocked or dodged. Instead, Chirard ignored the strokes of the massive Dwarf axe and launched his own attacks, first hamstringing and then guttig his foe. As Chirard's talon tore through its chest, it emitted a sound like a dying bull. Chirard was pleased. There was still time to kill some more, even if one of his lieutenants had gotten the sorcerer.

He lost track of time, as his mind receded into the blood-frenzy familiar to every Khornate. His actions became automatic. Parry, dodge, block, stab, slash, gouge, dodge… no conscious thought troubled the blood-spattered purity of the moment.

All too soon it was over. The few Hobgoblin survivors fled into the Wastes, there to die horrible deaths. Much better to stay and die here Chirard thought At least here their deaths would have slaked the thirst of Lord Khorne. Out there, they will probably be wasted. HE always felt slightly sad after a battle, even so short a one as this. When he fought he felt more alive more…there. All his sensations felt more spectacular: colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer, smell stronger, and so on. Battle was a heady pleasure he was sure no Slaaneshi could ever achieve. For all their frantic excess, o follower of the Pleasure God would ever know the simple joy of the blood-frenzy.

Not his problem, really. Chirard gave a slight shrug, and waved his warriors on. They had drunk their fill of the enemy's blood and followed with minimal grumbling/growling.

They made good time that day, refreshed from their gorging on flesh and blood. It was always that way with those who followed Khorne. Battle and death made them stronger, as they made their God stronger.

By the end of the day, Chirard's suspicion was confirmed as the Brass Mountain slowly hove into view.

Glorious.

It was everything he'd hoped it would be. A Big. Brass. Mountain. Stained with blood. A simple, primal tribute to a primal god. But there was still a long way to go.

Chirard ran, towards the mountain and his destiny.

END CH.2

I notice you people aren't reviewing. Lets see if we can't change that soon, hmmm?