Again, the Blind One bobbed its head.
'Good, good. We must both be ready. We have done all the preparations. All that remains is to cast the fatal blow. The Empire will be ours, and plague and pestilence shall reign.'
'
Pestilenssssss
,'
hissed the skaven.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hroth climbed the
tower of skulls for what seemed like an eternity. He did not glance down, but had he, he would have been unable to see the ground lost in fire and smoke far below him. Skulls were crushed under his grip, but he barely noticed, intent on climbing ever upwards.
Lightning struck the tower beside him, and splinters of bone and teeth cut his face. The skulls shifted, and he held on tightly so as not to fall. Skinless flying daemons, all muscle, tendon and claws, assailed him, tearing at his hands, prying his fingers from eye sockets. He swatted them away from him, and continued his ascent.
Finally, he climbed to the top of the tower, and pulled himself over the edge, breathing hard. His arms and legs ached from the climb, and he flexed his fingers. He stood atop a plateau. Hundreds of thousands of skulls stacked neatly in piles, reached high into the sky, as far as the eye could see. The sky was afire, angry red flames ripping across the heavens.
Asavar Kul sat before him on a throne of skulls, red eyes watching him with interest from beneath his fully enclosed helmet.
The sword, the Slayer of Kings, lay on his lap. Dark power coalesced within the massive weapon, writhing as if in torment. The daemon U'zhul, straining ever to escape its bindings, Hroth realised.
Asavar Kul was a massive man, exuding immense power. His glowing red eyes bored into Hroth, and he felt humbled. He dropped to his knees before this avatar of the gods, paying his respects to one of the greatest warlords that the world had ever seen, one of the Everchosen of Chaos.
'Rise, warrior.' the great warlord said, his voice strong and loud. Hroth raised himself to his full height. Still, if the warlord stood up from his skull throne, he would have towered over him.
'Why do you seek me out here, warrior?' boomed the Everchosen. 'Why do you interrupt me?'
'Everchosen,' said Hroth, licking his lips, and choosing his words carefully. 'I come seeking power.'
'Power! Bah! Of course you seek power, it is the way of Chaos: the way of the Norscan, the Hung and the Kurgan. It is the way it has always been, and ever will be, but what is it you truly seek?'
'I... to kill, to raise a skull tower to rival yours, and to honour great Khorne.'
Asavar Kul stood up from his throne, hefting the Slayer of Kings before him. A screaming daemonic face could be seen within the blade, eyes staring out malevolently. He rolled his shoulders, the massive metal plates of his armour sliding over each other smoothly. 'A tower to rival mine, eh? That would be impressive, impressive indeed.' He swung the blade in an arc around him, and Hroth took an inadvertent step backwards. Power crackled around the blade, lightning that arced up and down its surface and over the massive warrior's armoured arms. Hroth's axe was in his hands, although he did not remember drawing it. It felt heavy in his grip.
'There is fear in you, warrior. I can sense it in your heart.' said the massive warlord menacingly. 'What is it that you fear?'
'I fear nothing, warlord.' said Hroth, his voice sounding weak in his ears.
'You fear death itself.' stated Asavar Kul. 'Death is nothing. You think that death is an end to your service to the Dark Gods? You have much to learn.' he said, leaning his head from one side to the other. 'Your service to the gods continues long after death, warrior. For what is death to the gods themselves? It is nothing. You could die here atop this plateau of skulls, and the gods would not care.' He took a step towards Hroth. The chosen of Khorne raised his axe before him.
'You are nothing, little man.' the warlord continued. 'You are nothing to the gods, and you are nothing to me.'
'I seek to continue the war that you started, the war that ended with your defeat.' growled Hroth, his anger building.
'Do you hear nothing that I say? My death meant nothing. The gods did not mourn my passing. Always, there is another to start the slaughter afresh.'
'I seek your blade, great warlord. With it the tribes will rally behind me.'
'This?' said Asavar Kul, holding the blade up. 'It is but a sword, but if you want it, you will have to best me. Little man, you think you can take it from me?' 'I will, or I will die trying.' snarled Hroth. 'As you wish it.' intoned the warlord, and stepped forwards to cut the Khorne champion down, another skull for his mountainous tower.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Stefan rode across
the open field, his steed stepping through the frost-covered grass. His breath steamed out before him, and he resisted the urge to blow warm air onto his frozen hands. The light was the strange cold glow of pre-dawn. Not that the sun would change much today, for the skies were bleak and filled with cloud - no sunlight would penetrate that thick blanket. Fog clung to the ground, wisping across the open field and collecting in the dips and hollows of the uneven earth.
Albrecht rode a pace behind him, as did Lederstein, the captain of the Reiklandguard. Behind them rode twenty of his resplendent knights, imposing big men riding on their massive warhorses. One of the knights held the standard of his order high in the air, and another carried Stefan's own banner, flying the colours of Ostermark.
The captain's eyes were hard and cold, staring straight ahead of him as he approached the cluster of men across the field. A massive banner flew there too, also displaying the colours of Ostermark. However, that banner bore the heraldic markings of the grand count, the leader of all the forces of Ostermark. Stefan felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of it.
'Easy, you stupid creature.' hissed Albrecht as his horse pulled at the reins.
For almost two weeks, Stefan had marched across the Empire, chasing Gruber's army almost to the foothills of the World's Edge Mountains. He had heard nothing of Gunthar and his mission to uncover the only weapon said to be able to kill the count. Although he hoped that the warrior priest fared well, Stefan cared not for the weapon - all he wanted to do, all that dominated his waking and resting thoughts, was to face the count on the field of battle. Today, his wishes would come to fruition.
A shout barked out, and the troop of some fifty greatswords wearing the purple and yellow of Ostermark stood sharply to attention, raising their massive weapons to their shoulders. Before them, the aides and advisors of the grand count clustered around an enclosed palanquin held on the shoulders of six men. As Stefan and his men approached, the palanquin was lowered smoothly to the ground. Its occupant could not be seen, hidden behind a gauze screen, but Stefan had no doubt that the pretender Gruber sat within.
Von Kessel raised his hand and the knights with him halted, their steeds snorting and stamping their hooves. He nodded to Albrecht and Lederstein, and dismounted to approach the palanquin. He flashed a glance over the advisors, seeing the coldness in their eyes. The copper-skinned Tilean advisor Andros regarded him with disdain, a smug smile curling the corners of his mouth. Johann, Gruber's nephew and heir, did not even attempt to hide his hatred, staring at him murderously.
A pair of men raised long horns to their mouths and blew a long blast into the cold air. 'The merciful Grand Count Otto Gruber, Prince of Bechafen, Chancellor and true chosen claimant of the title Elector of Ostermark!' boomed one of the men that had been carrying the palanquin. Stefan's face curled in disgust.
A mechanical apparatus on the top of the palanquin whirred into action, clicking and turning as dials and cogs began to move. A small clockwork doorway opened and a miniature, mechanical drumming bear marched out, its head tipping from side to side as it struck its bronze drum. A pair of mechanised skeletons, each bearing a sand timer, walked jerkily to the front of the palanquin. One turned left and the other turned right, and they began to march across the top of the enclosed box. As they did so, the curtain hiding Gruber from view was jerked back, exposing the man reclining on a bed of pillows, stroking a dead toad. When the curtain was pulled completely back, the miniature skeletons marched back to their alcoves, and the drumming bear retreated back through its doorway. With a click, the doors slammed shut, and the whirring of gears and cogs ceased.
'Marvellous, isn't it!' exclaimed the grand count, clapping his pudgy hands together. 'Simply wonderful!' The fat man shuffled his weight. 'Welcome, Captain Stefan von Kessel. I hear that you have been performing well. I am most pleased. You do Ostermark honour with your actions, young man. Come forward, I want to see you.'
Stefan's jaw twitched and he clenched his hands at his sides, repressing the urge to leap forwards and kill the fiend where he sat. 'I would be much better, Gruber, if I had not learnt that something is rotten in the heart of Ostermark.' he managed, his anger barely contained and his voice strained.
'You will address the grand count with the proper respect, whoreson.' snarled the black-clad Johann. Gruber waved him into silence.
'Rotten, is it? You talk of the plague? Terrible thing it is, yes. Terrible.' said the grand count, a slight smile on his face, and his eyes flashing with dark humour.
'I talk of something worse than plague,
Gruber
,'
snarled Stefan, casting Johann a venomous glare. 'I talk of the worship of the Dark Gods, and of the deception of the Ostermark itself:
the enemy within
.'
'You speak of your grandfather still, I see. You are fixated on it, boy. You must forget his treachery if ever you are to move forwards.'
'I do not speak of my grandfather, honest and just man that he was.'
'Honest and just, was he? He was a treacherous, Chaos-worshipping cur!' the count spat, spittle flying from his mouth.
Stefan saw that Gruber was looking far worse than the last time he had seen the man. His face was slick with sweat, and his hair had begun to fall out in great clumps, leaving bare patches on his head that were covered in flaking scabs. Both his eyes wept yellow liquid down his cheeks, and an attendant dabbed at them with a wet cloth every few moments. His mouth was surrounded in seeping sores, and his fleshy pink tongue licked at them unconsciously. The overpowering wafts of incense and scented oils could not disguise the rank stink of decay that hung over him.
'He betrayed Ostermark, he betrayed me, and he betrayed you, his cursed kin! It is thanks to him that you were branded with that hideous mark as a child, von Kessel, branded with that mark of Chaos to reflect his shame!' The count slumped back into his pillows. Stefan stood statue-still, his face reddening, but the count had not yet finished. 'You owe me your life, von Kessel! The witch hunters wanted you to burn in the flames with your grandfather and that bitch mother of yours. It was I who argued to spare you! And how do you thank me? By turning up before me with an army - my
own
army - arrayed against me as if for war. Grovel.' the enraged count screamed, growing increasingly red in the face, 'grovel before me, you whoreson! Grovel, or I will see you hang for your treacherous actions!'
'I owe you nothing, Gruber. Grovel before you? I think not. I would sooner die than do such a thing, you treacherous pretender.'
'I think that I can arrange such a thing.' hissed the count. 'You, man.' he said, throwing a pudgy finger towards the Reiklandguard captain. 'Take him. Do your Emperor his duty, and take him from my sight! I will see him hanged before the morning is out!' The knight made no move, his humourless face impassive. 'What are you waiting for? You are a loyal servant of the Empire, are you not? I am an elector count, knight. I
order
you to take him!'
'I cannot do that, my lord.' the knight said.
'You cannot... I will see you hang as well. Do it!' The knight stood still, his face betraying no emotion.
'So, I see you have spread your lies, von Kessel. I spared your life, you ungrateful wretch.' hissed the count.
For all his years this had made the guilt within Stefan surface, for he knew that it was true. Not now - now he was filled with a burning rage. This man had not saved him - he had condemned him to a painful upbringing of shame. He owed this man nothing.
'Will you accept your crimes and face trial?' asked Stefan, his voice icy.
'Face trial?' The count laughed, and then coughed, and hacked up a ball of phlegm, spitting it into a bronze spittoon. 'I have no need to. No one would accept the word of one shamed captain whose grandfather was burnt as a witch. I am an elector of the Empire!' He laughed at the ludicrousness of the suggestion.
'My grandfather was an elector. They believed
you
.'
'Yes they did my boy, but I was the elector's most trusted advisor, and a close personal friend of his. Everyone in his court collaborated with me, turning upon him. I, as his most
faithful
of friends, was much aggrieved by his heresies. It was with
much
regret and despair that I brought his crimes to the attentions of the witch hunters. I brought in a witch hunter myself, a close personal associate, who did his duty with efficiency and fervour. I was so upset by it all.' Gruber said with unconcealed mock sincerity. 'I brought that witch hunter here today, to witness just how far
you
have fallen, von Kessel.' he said, motioning to a figure amongst his courtiers. A tall, flamboyantly dressed man nodded sagely to the count, and stepped forwards, bowing extravagantly.
'It is with great displeasure that I can see clearly that the soul of this man is tainted with the filth of Chaos. The count stayed my hand when you were a child, von Kessel. It seems that his goodwill and mercy have been thrown back in his face. You will face public prosecution and witch trials, which will result in your death, I am afraid.' He motioned imperiously, and two brutish men stepped towards the captain.