CHAPTER FOUR
A blanket of tents and huts had grown up at the foot of the Bastion. A home of debauchery and violence that sometimes necessitated the Swords of Chaos to plunge into the melee and wet their namesakes on the blood of Norscans. Other tribes had left in the past few weeks, looking for easy prey and sifting through the scraps of Kislev not already set aflame by the Warhost's initial assault.
Sometimes it was incredibly infuriating, how fickle and back-biting these tribes could be, as soon as the killings and slaves dried up. The lust empowering them from the Blood God and the God of Obsession was strong, but it made them intensively disloyal if they gave into it too much.
On the other hand, Archaon could understand their frustrations. They had been sitting around here for days on end, being silently mocked by the magic wall above them. Reduced to waiting on news from the Nurglite disruption offensive to the west or from the Changeling's minions, all the while trying to look for an alternative path to break through the Bastion.
A throne had been set up out the front of Archaon's command tent, one from which he could give brooding stares to the magic wall. Aside from this and running his eyes over the map for the thousandth time, there was next to nothing to do, unless he picked up the Slayer of Kings and joined his Swords in breaking up another fight in the camp.
Szalamund approached. "A message from the Changeling, Lord."
"Speak," Archaon rumbled, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword from where it lay across his knees.
"It has found the location of the primary ritual maintaining the integrity of the Bastion, the one that controls the section we are camped before. However, the priests and mages are very heavily guarded. Few assassins could get to them, and even so, almost all could be replaced within moments of their deaths. Aside from this, it reports that many military contingents that were defending the Bastion have been sent to deal with the incursion into Nordland."
"How long do you think we have before the distraction has been exhausted?"
"A few weeks at best. From the rough numbers the Changeling gave, I doubt Epidemus's force will be able to stand against them for long."
At that moment, a commotion and three of the Swords approached. The leader sank to his knee, head bowed.
"My Lord. Our Marauder patrols captured this prisoner in the forests to the east."
"Put me down, you snotling lovers!" roared a stone-grinding voice from behind. The other two Swords held a dwarf aloft under the arms. His legs kicked in the air, and his braided beard waggled as he moved.
The Swords cast him forward, and he hit the snow with a sound like a bag of flour being tossed into a riverbank. As he rose to his hands and knees, spitting ice from his beard, one of the Swords set an iron-shod boot into his back and pushed him back down.
"Kneel before the Everchosen, short-face," the armoured Chaos warrior snarled. The dwarf's shouts of fury were muffled in the snow.
Archaon was less than amused with this unusual gift that had been brought before him. "Why did you bring this to me?"
"He said he had something to offer you. Something that could get you through the Bastion."
Archaon gave the dwarf another look, this time with a modicum of interest. "Stand it up."
The first Sword lifted his foot from the stunted creature's back, before yanking him up with all the grace of an axe being pulled from an enemy's skull.
"Now, speak, beardling, before I have your hair cut from your face."
The dwarf brushed the white powder off himself quickly. Now that he was upright, Archaon noticed that the garments he wore were faded with sunlight and age, held together by patchy needlework, and so infused with dust that Archaon could hardly tell what was dye and what was dirt. The beard had grown beyond the plats, forming a rough bird's nest where it wasn't held together. Despite all of this, the dwarf stood as proudly and tall as his diminutive race were able to.
"I am Argeg, son of Ibrat. I come to offer you guidance and advice."
"I have enough of that already, beardling."
"You need a path through, or at least around, the manling's wall, correct? I can provide that." Archaon noted the sweat rising on the dwarf's bald forehead. "I know every pebble and crevice in the north of the World's Edge Mountains. A dwarf's memory never fails, even in old age. And I am not old for my people. There are paths through those mountains that only I know. That I could lead you on."
Szalamund laughed aloud. "There are no paths through the Mountains. At least not this far north."
"None that are marked on the maps," Argeg muttered darkly, running a swollen tongue over his lips.
"I presume you know of one that leads from here into the heart of the Empire?" Archaon said.
The dwarf nodded. "It will come out of the mountains in the territory the manlings call Ostermark. The path is large enough for a small military force to move through with speed."
"So, you will guide us through the mountains." Archaon noted how eagerly the dwarf nodded this time. That brought a frown and a seed of doubt to his mind. "What is in it for you? What prize do you demand of us?"
Argeg's eyes dropped to his boots. "It is but a small thing I desire. When the world has burnt, and your enemies are slaughtered, Karas-a-Karak will need a new king. And the riches that lie within will need a new guardian."
"Karas-a-Karak?" scoffed Szalamund. "And all its riches? You drive a hard bargain, dwarf."
"Is it not a worthy price to betray one's kin? To turn one's back on everything one has known?"
Archaon stood up. The dwarf wrung his hands together, his fingers drifting to rub his wrists in a seemingly instinctive motion.
"Rewards have no guarantee, beardling," Archaon said. "But when we are finished, there will be at least one dwarf hold for your taking."
The dwarf's face showed relief, and he bowed low before the Everchosen. Archaon felt no qualms about lying to the creature. Perhaps if his own plans did not supersede those of the Ruinous Powers, this dwarf would have got its reward. Then again, who knew? The will of the Chaos Gods is almost impossible to predict.
They stood at the end of the pass. Below lay the foothills and forests that ran into the blissful and unaware Imperial Province known as Ostermark. From this height, Archaon could see much of the Empire; the rivers Stir and Talabac, snaking their way from their birthplaces amidst the World's Edge Mountains, along with the grey spots of cities and villages. To the north, a shadowy wall stabbed up from this map-like vision, blocking all view of the lands beyond. Archaon's relief at making it through the pass was drained and replaced by reignited fury at the sight of the Auric Bastion.
Coming past him in ones and twos, the mounted Swords of Chaos walked their midnight steeds down the steep path, with Szalamund leading the way.
"You have my thanks, dwarf," Archaon addressed the short-statured Argeg standing near Droghur's shoulder. "Part of me suspected you might be a spy of the dwarven holds, leading us into a trap. You have proved your worth, and you will receive all that you desire."
The dwarf gave a wolfish grin, before turning and bowing. "You are most grateful, oh Lord of the End Times. Forgive me if I do not accompany you and your warriors further. I am but a lowly dwarf. My domain is the mountains and the high places; I know little of the lowlands."
"Very well, dwarf. I will inquire one thing further: why have you betrayed your kin? My experience of your people is one of dead loyalty; the dwarfs I know of would rather die than consider turning their back on family or clan. Why are you different?"
The dwarf's face became hard. A great rage seemed to come over him. "When Belagar Ironhammer reclaimed Karak Eight Peaks, many of our kin rushed to join him. My family lived in the hold of Zarakzil, and my father decided to move us to join the Ironhammer." The dwarf spat on the ground. "I was at Karaz-a-Karak, serving the Grudgebearer in the ranks of his warriors, fighting battles in the tunnels, going on expeditions to hunt our enemies throughout the mountains. Word reached us that my entire family had been slaughtered within a few leagues of Zarakzil. From the oldest elder to the youngest child, and all our ancestral treasures were lost. The rangers who found the massacre reported that it had been a skaven raiding party, of Clan Blackcleaver, that were responsible."
After a moment of silence, Argeg continued. "I knew that I had to regain my family's lost honour. I could do that by leading an army against the skaven, reclaiming our lost treasures. But all told me that I had to join the Slayer Cult. What good would that serve? Rushing headlong into my death in the first battle. How would that help reclaim our treasures?
"I went before the High King. I begged for his help. He looked at me with a hard face, and told me that the death of my family was written in the Book of Grudges, to be avenged when the time was right. But it was my duty to join the Slayers.
"I refused. I fled from Karaz-a-Karak. I went south and wandered in the area where my family had fallen. There was no sign of the skaven, even though I was alone. I saw rangers from Zarakzil, but they pursued me, shot their crossbow bolts at me. In their eyes, by refusing to join the Slayers, I had committed the greatest of sins."
Archaon settled into silence on Droghur. Then he kicked its flanks and sent it trotting down the slope, after his Swords.
The dwarf exile watched him for a long time before disappearing among the rocks and boulders of the mountain pass.
There were terribly foul things in the deep woods. If the citizens of the Empire knew the truth, they would flee behind the walls of their cities. They would flee to the mountains and beg the dwarfs for shelter in their holds.
Archaon felt the gaze on the back of his head the moment his force entered the Great Forest. It was the jealous, angry stare of a creature who saw only an intruder to its territory, but could not attack. The authority of the Ruinous Powers went before and behind and all around Archaon, and the beastmen were compelled by this supremacy to remain at bay. A couple sneaked forward into view, on the sides of the poorly maintained Beast-Path, and prostrated themselves down to the earth. Archaon did not doubt that the egos of many Swords of Chaos were being swelled by this revelation, that these feral, mutated animals were in awe of the elite warriors of Chaos.
It wasn't long before a Great Bray-Shaman stepped out of the trees and bowed before the mounted column, its four horns brushing the dirt.
"Hail, Three-Eyed-King," came its guttural voice, articulating words of a language foreign and alien to its mutated throat and tongue. "Our lords are ready to meet with you."
The shaman led them to gloom-shrouded clearing, where gathered beastmen of all strengths, shapes, sizes, and notoriety. In the centre stood two herdstones, raised above the moss and lichen, and carved with runes blasphemous to the unwary men who lived bare miles away.
At the foot of the stones stood two of the most infamous beastmen to ever walk the Old World. On the left was a monstrosity with a pair of pitch-black crow wings folded on its back; Malagor, the Dark Omen. It lashed these wings at the soil, tearing the grass. The other was missing an eye, an eye that had been cut out by an arch foe, a loss that had been avenged eightfold; Khazrak the One-Eyed. This one pawed at the ground with the cloven hooves ubiquitous to all its species.
Leaving his Swords to engage in a staring contest with the beastmen hordes, Archaon rode to meet the two lords with Szalamund in tow.
"Malagor, Dark Omen, has felt the signs, read the portents, and seen the visions," the shaman rumbled. "He knows of your purp–"
The Slayer of Kings left its sheath in seconds. It lashed out, eager to drink the blood of another, and slurped deeply from the throat of the shaman.
Beastmen paws leapt to axe shafts, arrows were nocked, spears salvaged from long-dead owners were readied. As one, the Swords of Chaos put their gauntleted hands on the hilts of their namesakes. A deadly silence descended over the clearing, broken only by the spluttering breaths of the now dead shaman, its lungs caught in a death reflex, trying to pull air through the shattered and bleeding hole in the throat.
Archaon turned the dripping Slayer of Kings towards the two beastmen lords. The sword shivered, barely under control.
"You have tongues," he said. "You have voices. Speak. I will not communicate through a mouthpiece."
Both leaders looked immensely displeased and seemed to consult with sideways glances. The winged one spoke first.
"I know of your purpose. Khazrak and I are here to serve the will of the Dark Gods. As this aligns with yours, we will–"
Malagor broke off as a tower of muscle entered the ring. Almost as tall as a dragon ogre, it beat its chest with a meaty paw, tossed the horns on its head, and extended its axe towards Archaon with a bellow in its gibberish tongue.
From behind, dozens of swords were drawn, each ready to defend their leader from the impudent beastman. Archaon held his hand up, keeping his men back.
"I accept your challenge."
The beastman seemed vindicated. It began kicking at the ground and pacing back and forth as it awaited the start of the combat. Archaon vaulted down from Droghur; the Slayer of Kings hissed and sizzled with the blood of the shaman, a chorus of desire, ready to drink more.
After a moment, in which the entire clearing held its breath, the beastman lowered its head and charged, horns aimed like daggers, axe whirling below like a pendulum. Archaon smoothly stepped to one side, and the creature went hurtling past. It fell into a roll, screeching to a halt, digging furrows in the earth as it clawed to a stop. Its eyes flickered with unbridled rage, and the axe swung up.
Archaon parried with the sword. The beastman's axe rose and fell twice more, trying to break through with brute strength. Yet, each strike gouged a deep chip into the axe, quickly turning its blade into a serrated edge.
As the fourth strike came down, Archaon stepped inside the swing, causing the beastman to overbalance and stumble forwards. From there, it was simply a matter of jamming the sword into the exposed, unarmoured chest of the creature.
It gave out a strangled scream, a far cry from the proud bellows and antagonistic grunts it had been so quick to make before. There was no pity, nor sorrow in the eyes of the watchers. The challenge had been issued, answered, and defeated. Such as it was in the world of the beastmen.
Archaon yanked his sword out of the cooling corpse, and turned to the lords of the Chaos-tainted, mutated race. "I summon you to fulfil your ultimate purpose, service unto the Dark Gods. Swear fealty to me."
Begrudgingly, almost reluctantly, Khazrak and Malagor both prostrated themselves to the ground. The beastmen hordes filling the clearing roared and pounded their weapons, ready for blood and murder and debauchery in service to their makers.
None could see the smile that touched Archaon's face.