Blood for the Blood God

12

A purple sky hung overhead, sprawling across the heavens like an angry bruise. Black clouds boiled through the haze, flickers of lightning burning behind their sombre depths. The clouds moved independent of the howling wind, scattering in every direction as they slowly rolled across the sky. The wind was a fierce, biting gale driving down from the north, shimmering flickers of energy trapped within its coils, dragging the essence of the gods with them as they raged their way southward.

This was the edge, the borderland between the world of mortals and the Wastes. There was no name for this place, this desolation saturated in the malignity of the gods. Perhaps it had once been a part of the Barrens of Nuur, perhaps it had once been a forest like the Grey or a place of towers and gardens like the Crumbling Hills. Now it was nothing, a blight that stretched away to where the black gloom of the clouds reached down to consume it. The ground was parched, grey and lifeless beyond even the desiccated lake bed of the Barrens. More than lifeless, it was a cursed place. Great hills littered the landscape in lonely piles of black stone, as though shunning the company of their fellows. They were almost shapeless, these hills, like piles of oozing mud or the molten stumps of mountains.

More than the black hills, the grey earth and the purple sky, the borderland was dominated by the mouldering shine of bleached bone. The plain was covered in skeletal heaps, broken bones scattered as far as the eye could follow, betokening some ancient slaughter beyond imagining.

Qotagir guided Devseh into the field of bone. The mammoth’s strength was waning, despite the efforts of the Tsavags to tend its wounds. The Seifan had been vicious in their attack, and it was a testament to the endurance and tenacity of the beast that it had been able to travel so far without being allowed to stop and rest.

To stop would allow the Seifan riders another chance to overtake them. They had lost half of their number fighting against the Hung. A renewed attack would finish them. There was no choice, they had to press on and hope that Devseh could endure.

The decision seemed to have been the wise choice. They had reached the borderland, a place no Tsavag had gazed upon for generations. They could feel the power of the gods flowing down from the north, and smell the clammy taint in the air. In many ways, they were reminded of the otherworldly aura of Teiyogtei’s tomb, an eerie sense of dread that tugged at the back of the mind, goading it towards violence. Even Devseh felt the sensation, the mammoth’s temper flaring in trumpeting outbursts and mindless attacks against boulders and piles of bone.

“He must rest soon,” warned Qotagir, calling back to the howdah from his ivory cage on the mammoth’s neck.

Dorgo looked back at the Barrens, watching for any sign of dust rising from the dry lake bed. The desolation was silent, as dead as the land before them. If the Seifan yet pursued them, the Hung were still far off.

“Try to find some high ground,” Dorgo told Qotagir. They would be in bad shape if they lost Devseh, but their condition would be worse if they failed to spy the Seifan crossing the Barrens.

Dorgo continued to watch the land pass away behind them as the mammoth slowly lumbered towards one of the crude piles of rock. The warrior’s skin prickled with dismay as he saw grotesque red weeds sprout from the grey earth behind them, erupting in a rough line that matched Devseh’s footsteps.

He cast his eyes downward, watching the ground as the mammoth plodded on. Blood continued to trickle from some of the animal’s wounds, splashing to the lifeless earth in drips and spurts. Wherever the blood struck the ground, the scarlet grass fought its way up through the grey dirt and scattered bone.

It was an eerie, ugly sight, made even more uncanny by the hideous, writhing life displayed by the weeds.

They were like bloody fingertips trying to claw free from a shallow grave. Dorgo shuddered at the image, trying his best to banish it from his thoughts.

“You look troubled, warrior.”

Dorgo started as the soft voice intruded upon his grim imaginings. Soundlessly, Sanya had crossed the platform to join him at the side of the howdah. The confidence and arrogance of the sorceress, the bold superiority that she had lorded over her Tsavag companions since they had departed many days ago were gone. Once again, she had the haunted, frightened look that Dorgo had seen at the tomb.

“Far less than you,” Dorgo replied. He shook his head, making a contemptuous gesture at the patches of writhing weeds. “This is a filthy land,” he said.

“The Blood God’s touch hangs heavy here,” Sanya said. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Dorgo’s face. “You can feel it too. The air is heavy with the Blood God’s malice and the Blood God’s hate. The earth lusts for blood, the sky screams out for pain.” She pressed her hands to her head, pressing her long dark locks against her ears, and screwing her eyes shut in an expression of suffering. “This place knows we are here. It wants to destroy us, to devour our flesh, our souls.”

“It will be cheated,” Dorgo scowled. He spat into the grimy dirt below. A red weed poked up from the grey ground, but found spittle less sustaining than blood. It withered as quickly as it sprouted, leaving only a brittle yellow husk behind. “We did not brave the Barrens and defy the Seifan to add more bones to this desert.”

Sanya’s face twitched into a less than reassured smile. She turned away from Dorgo, watching as the huge mammoth continued its drive across the desolate grey earth. Bones crunched beneath its laborious steps, providing a strange accompaniment to its heavy, rasping breath. The Sul watched as a stretch of broken ground came into view, a region pierced by hundreds of tall, slender poles. Not poles, the sorceress quickly realised. Stakes. With that realisation, the sorceress understood that if this place was without name, it was not without history.

“This is where it happened,” she whispered in a voice subdued with awe.

Catching the woman’s tone, Dorgo took leave of his careful vigil of the retreating Barrens. There was little enough about this quest that was to his liking: the enormity of his task, the grave consequences for failure. Most of all, he disliked the company of the Sul sorceress. A witch was unpleasant enough to be around, a Sul one was worse. Even after their battle with the Seifan, Dorgo found himself watching Sanya for the smallest warning of treachery. He distrusted every display of emotion, and every trace of feeling in her voice. He disliked riddles, disliked challenges that went beyond strength and courage to solve.

“Where what happened?” Dorgo asked suspiciously. Sanya’s surprise seemed genuine, but he knew that the Sul wore their faces like the Muhaks wore their masks. It took a craftier mind than his to know for certain what was really going on behind the visible display.

Sanya ignored the caustic challenge in Dorgo’s question. She pointed to the field of stakes, to the broken ground beneath them. The litter of bones was heavier here, mixed with old pieces of crumbling armour and the splintered wreckage of axes and swords. Heaps of skulls, piled far too orderly to be some caprice of the elements, grinned at them from between the stakes.

“This is where Teiyogtei Khagan brought his army down from the Wastes and into the Shadowlands,” Sanya said, “where the great king led the Tong in battle against the Dolgans.” She waved her hands at the piled skulls and the sinister, spindly wooden stakes. “The Dolgans were the first tribe to oppose Teiyogtei when he emerged from the Wastes, the first obstacle to his dreams of conquest and empire. The king’s horde met the armies of the Kurgans here in a mighty conflict that raged for a week and a day. When it was over, the Tong built mounds of skulls to honour Khorne for their victory. They cut down an entire forest and fashioned these stakes to stand over their offerings and upon each they impaled a Kurgan captured in the battle.”

The sorceress’ eyes were vibrant, feverish as she recounted the ancient slaughter, and Dorgo was reminded again that the Sul considered themselves the legitimate heirs of Teiyogtei as did each of the eight tribes of the domain.

“When the last Kurgan was impaled,” she continued, “the Tong built a great statue of bloodstone to honour their king, that he might forever watch over the battlefield he had won.”

“Be sensible, witch,” Dorgo scoffed. “Hundreds of generations have passed since Teiyogtei led my people down from the Wastes. How could sticks and bones endure for so long without collapsing into dust? It is a battlefield, I grant, but it has nothing to do with the king!”

“Time is a deceit that does not exert its tyranny in the Wastes,” Sanya snapped. “The gods decide what fades and what endures in the places that feel their touch. Mountains crumble while trophies offered to the Blood God remain through the ages. Who are you to question the power of the gods?”

Dorgo bristled at the woman’s scorn. Devseh was passing between the narrow ranks of the wooden stakes, snapping them as the beast pushed its bulk down the narrow path. Skulls fell from their stakes as the mammoth’s pounding footsteps disturbed them. Dorgo felt the menace, the eerie unseen hatred of the place, crushing down around him. He felt the mouldy touch of antiquity, the long ages since the crash of axe and shield had echoed across the plain. Still, he defiantly clung to his denial of Sanya’s claims.

“If this is the battlefield, then where is the statue of Teiyogetei?” he demanded.

Sanya had no need to answer his question. The broken wreckage of a great colossus was strewn at the base of the hill that Qotagir was guiding Devseh towards. The bloodstone from which it had been carved, at once both crimson and black, was sprawled across the grey earth like pools of frozen gore. Dorgo could see the snapped pillar of a leg, the jagged stump of an arm. The chest bore the familiar outline of lamellar armour worn by Tong khagans. The decapitated head was proud, its features powerful and stern, the spiked circle of the Blood-Crown stretching across its brow. Intact, it would have towered two hundred feet into the air. Now it was only so much rubble, dwarfed by the hill behind it and the bleached mound that loomed beside it.

Dread pawed at Dorgo’s heart as he looked upon that mound. It was a mountain of skulls, making the trophy piles beneath the stakes look like the work of children. Thousands, no, millions, of heads had been taken to build the morbid monument. The skulls of men, beastmen, giants and ogres, wolves and tigers, and beasts without number or name had been cast into the pile. Upon the forehead of each was branded the rune of Khorne, the fell symbol of the Blood God.

The icy crawl of fear made its way down Dorgo’s spine as he looked once more upon the shattered colossus of Teiyogtei Khagan. Broken into eight pieces, only one had been further defiled. Carved into the dark forehead of the statue was the crossbar symbol of Khorne.

Dorgo knew that he looked upon the work of the Skulltaker.

Qotagir urged Devseh to its knees some small distance from the toppled colossus. The mammoth snorted in protest, but did as it was told. Closer to the ground, Dorgo and the others riding in the howdah began tossing gear and supplies down from the platform. Their task completed, the Tsavags and their Sul ally followed the equipment, lowering themselves over the shaggy side of the mammoth and dropping the remaining distance to the grey earth.

There was no time to unfasten the howdah from the huge beast, and once the last of the passengers was clear, Qotagir goaded his charge to lie down on its side. Devseh gave no argument, slumping wearily against the ground. Qotagir tossed aside his goad-stick and rummaged around the packs of supplies for the ointments and salves that the expedition had brought with them. Even as the mahout rushed back to tend the mammoth’s wounds, Dorgo could see red weeds sprouting up all around the injured beast.

The Tsavags began to explore their surroundings, gazing with superstitious awe at the mound of skulls and the broken image of their ancient king. Dorgo called out to his men, snapping quick orders to keep them from wandering off. He sent Ulagan to climb the nearby hill. The scout had the sharpest eyes of any in the small band and would have the best chance of spotting any Seifan crossing the Barrens. The hunter wrapped his wormy arm around the haft of a long spear and set out at a jog for the pile of melted stone.

Dorgo watched the hunter for a space, and then turned away, walking towards the broken bulk of the colossus. Surely magic had gone into the construction of such a monument, for no mortal hand could build on such a scale. As he rounded the cracked shoulder of the statue, he found himself gazing upon a massive base of granite, the snapped feet of the colossus still thrusting up from the top of the cyclopean slab. Sanya was standing before the base, staring up at it with an expression of barely restrained terror. Dorgo wondered what her witch’s senses were telling her, what hideous vision her eyes alone could see.

Approaching the sorceress, Dorgo discovered that she was not gazing upon the statue and its granite slab. Set before the feet of the colossus was a single tall stake. Unlike the others that peppered the borderland, this one was made not of wood, but of bronze, its tip still wickedly sharp and cruelly barbed even after so many years. It stretched twenty feet into the air, and much of its length was caked in a crust of blood and filth. There was something sinister and ominous about this lone spike. Dorgo did not wonder that it had seized Sanya’s attention.

“This is where the seed was sown,” Sanya said, her voice trembling. “The king planted the seed of his ruin here.”

Dorgo nodded, understanding the woman’s fear if not her words. Looking at the bronze stake was like staring into the unblinking eyes of a zhaga, waiting for that cold gaze to betray the instant the giant lizard would strike, knowing all the while that it would never give any warning. The warrior felt every sense crying out in alarm, felt the lurking unseen danger of the borderland gathering around him. In some way he did not understand, the bronze stake was the focal point for all the evil of this place.

Dorgo reacted to the threat in the only way he knew. In one fluid motion, he tore his sword from his belt and brought the weapon crashing against the metal stake. He felt fire course through his arms as his blade struck the unyielding bronze. Darkness flared before his eyes, and a grinding shriek like the murmur of a murderous wind filled his ears. As he collapsed to the grey, dead ground, Dorgo felt his mind slipping away, vanquished from the lands and the time that he knew.

He could not explain how he knew he was still in the borderland. The miserable melted hills were no more, in their stead were mighty mountains with tree-lined slopes and strange snake-birds hovering around their summits. The earth was sandy, coarse and pallid beneath a bright, gleaming sun. The distant boundary of the Wastes was lost behind a billowing veil of scarlet smoke. The air was hot and dry, lacking the taint of blood and ruin. Dorgo knew he looked upon the borderland as it had been, long ages past.

A great host of warriors stood beneath the trees, bodies encased in armour of blackened iron chased with gold, leathery faces turned to the scarlet veil. They were Kurgans, drawn from the tribes of the Yusak, the Gharhars, Avags and the Tokmars, united beneath the wolf banner of the Dolgans, the mightiest host the Shadowlands had seen in a thousand years. Dreams of blood, visions of hate and slaughter had drawn them here, lured to this desolation by their hundreds and thousands to answer the siren call of hungry gods.

The words of shamans and seers had brought them to this place, but it was the will and power of one man, the Dolgan Zar Vrkas, that had forged the disparate warbands into an army. A hundred warlords had fallen to the Dolgan’s axe, but with each defeat the warriors of each chieftain had sworn their allegiance to the wolf banner.

The Kurgan host watched and waited all through the hot hours of the morning sun. They waited for the prophecies of their shamans to be fulfilled. They waited for the great horde that would emerge from the Wastes to test the strength of the Kurgans.

When the sun hung high overhead, the vigil was ended. A mighty horde exploded from the scarlet smoke, screaming their war cries, and chanting the names of their gods. As the dreams had foretold, the dreaded Tong had once more been unleashed upon the Shadowlands. They were as vast as an ocean, numbers beyond counting, stretching across the horizon: horsemen on shaggy ponies with fanged jaws and flaming eyes, infantry in armour of leather and bone and huge war mammoths that shook the earth. At their head rode a warrior wearing a helm of gold and a crown of crimson.

The Tong horde was like a crawling sea as it spread into the borderland. Even the Kurgan host was dwarfed by comparison, less than a pebble in the path of a titan. Some among the Kurgan host lost heart and turned to flee. Their fellows cut the wretches down to a man. Death was better than shame.

The Kurgans wheeled towards the slopes of the mountains, trying to use the broken terrain to counter the riders of the Tong, but the hulking warriors, encased in their mail of iron, covered the ground slowly. The riders were upon them before they had covered half the distance.

Behind the riders came the mammoths and after them the infantry in their armour of polished bone and boiled skin. The Kurgans fought with the vicious tenacity of doomed men, sparing no thought for survival or victory, devoting their efforts solely to the pursuit of carnage.

The battle did not last for the week and a day of legend, but when the Tong stood triumphant upon the field, not a man among the horde failed to appreciate how sorely their victory had been won. For each Kurgan slain, three of the Tong had spilled their blood on the sand. Hundreds of ponies and dozens of mammoths had been felled by the Kurgans before they were broken and butchered by the vengeful horde.

Almost to a man, for as Teiyogtei Khagan, the great king of the Tsavags, walked through the battlefield, his attention was drawn to one last scene of violence playing out on the field of slaughter.

A cluster of Tong warriors had surrounded a lone Kurgan, jabbing at him with their spears and swords. The Kurgan was a huge brute, towering over his tormentors. A breastplate of black iron encased his chest, and a heavy bearskin cloak hung from his back. Scars and wounds notched his arms and legs. His helm had been knocked from his head, exposing a scarred visage of wrathful defiance.

Even the king paused when he felt the Kurgan’s fiery eyes turn towards him. Those eyes promised death, and even with his horde all around him, Teiyogtei felt a tremor run through his body as he met that gaze.

The Kurgan roared, swinging the great axe he held in a wide, sweeping arc. A Tong spearman’s arm was split in two by the cleaving stroke, the swordsman in front of him slashed from thigh to rib. The Tong warriors spat vengeful curses on their foe, converging on him in a stabbing, thrusting mob. The battleaxe hacked through armour, chopped into flesh and crushed bone. Screams of agony replaced curses and shouts. The mob of warriors relented, recoiling from their awful foe, leaving five of their number maimed at his feet.

Teiyogtei knew that this could only be Vrkas, the zar of the Dolgans, leader of the Kurgan host. He pushed his way through his warriors, confronting the defiant zar. An awed hush swept across the battlefield as the Tong watched their king square off against the murderous Vrkas. Teiyogtei knew that this was the true challenge Khorne had set before him: not the massacre of an outnumbered Kurgan army, but the defeat of this mighty warrior, this man so terrible that he caused a king who had vanquished daemons to know fear.

Vrkas did not wait for the king to close upon him. The Kurgan rushed Teiyogtei, chopping at him as he emerged from the circle of warriors. The king narrowly dodged the blow, but the Tong warrior beside him was not so fortunate. The blade of the axe buried itself in the man’s chest. The dying warrior clutched desperately at the weapon that had killed him, bloody froth bubbling from his mouth.

Teiyogtei lashed out at Vrkas while the Kurgan’s axe was still enmeshed in the dying warrior’s body. The Bloodeater raked across the zar’s breastplate as he feinted to one side. With a display of raw, savage power, Vrkas ripped his axe free, flinging the dead Tong at the king. The body collapsed at Teiyogtei’s feet, tripping him up as he lunged again at the Kurgan.

Vrkas charged the unbalanced king, bringing his axe hurtling down in an overhanded stroke. Teiyogtei slid around the hurtling blade, catching the stroke along his shoulder instead of his head. Armour and skin were sliced away by the cleaving edge, blood spilling from the ugly gash. Vrkas recovered quickly, cracking the butt of the axe handle into Teiyogtei’s stomach as the king backed away. However, the lacquered armour protected the khagan, absorbing the brutal impact.

Teiyogtei swung his jewelled blade at the Kurgan’s face, driving him back as he lunged once more to the attack. Vrkas’ scarred face was made still more horrible as it twisted into a snarl of frustrated bloodlust. The king took note of his enemy’s fury and used it against him.

He swung the Bloodeater in a wide arc, a blow Vrkas easily parried with the haft of his axe, but the Kurgan was unfamiliar with the preternatural sharpness of the king’s daemon-forged blade. The haft of the axe splintered beneath the stroke, the wreckage of the weapon spilling from the Kurgan’s hands.

The king rushed the reeling Vrkas before he could recover. Again, the Bloodeater flashed out as Teiyogtei slashed at the man. This time the blade caught him in the side of the head. Had Teiyogtei struck him with the edge, he would have shorn Vrkas’ skull in half. Instead, the king caught him with the flat of the blade. Fiery eyes rolled back as the Kurgan fell to the ground, stunned by the bludgeoning impact.

Teiyogtei stared down at the insensible zar. No clean death for this one, this man who had made a king know fear. Tong warriors were already felling the forests to carve stakes for those Kurgans that had been captured during the battle. These wretches would be impaled, condemned to a slow, lingering death above the field of battle. They would allow Vrkas the dignity of his position as leader of the army. His stake would be higher than the others, forged of bronze instead of wood. There the zar would die, his body a ruin of pain and suffering, the gods weary of his cries for mercy.

Vrkas hung upon his stake for many days, his blood lubricating the shaft as it slowly worked its way through his belly and out through his back. Flies gathered around his wounds, vultures circled overhead, and jackals lapped at the puddle of gore beneath his lofty perch.

Any mind but that of the zar would have accepted death, would have welcomed its cold caress as a release from his pain. Something stronger than death, something stronger than life or flesh burned inside his heart. When, days after he had been impaled, the Tong horde continued its southward march, Vrkas used that inner fire, allowing its strength to flow through his wasted, maimed body.

Inch by agonising inch, Vrkas pulled himself up the stake, dragging the bronze spike through his body. It was more than mortal strength that fired his muscles and made him numb to his pain.

For an entire day, Vrkas worked his body up the gory shaft. It was night when he reached the top. Free from the stake, he let his wracked body fall to the ground, smashing into it with an impact that shattered half of his bones.

Hours passed before the broken wreckage began to move again, dragging itself across the bloody battlefield. Vrkas did not crawl south, after the lands of the Kurgans and the departed Tong. The fire that burned inside him, that sustained him, drew him north, towards the smoky veil. There he sensed an even greater fire calling out to him, a fire that burned with flames of hate and the need for revenge.

Vrkas’ hatred dragged him onwards, past the borderland, guiding him to that greater hate: the timeless rage of gods and daemons.

Sharp, biting pain pulled Dorgo from the ghastly vision of the past. Blood was oozing down his arm from a shallow cut puckering his flesh. Togmol stood before him, wiping his knife clean on his fur cloak. Dorgo reached for his blade, but froze as his foggy brain became aware of the sounds filling his ears: shouts and screams, the pained trumpeting of Devseh and something else, an abominable sucking sound like a child slurping dregs from a bowl.

“You would not waken,” Togmol started to explain, but Dorgo had already dismissed the hulking warrior from his thoughts.

He reached down and recovered his sword from the lifeless dirt, stunned to see the blade deeply notched where it had struck the bronze stake. Sword in hand, he started to race back through the jumble of bloodstone rubble, running towards the sounds of violence. Togmol called after him, the big Tsavag cursing lividly as he chased after Dorgo.

Rounding the broken head of the colossus, Dorgo found himself looking on a scene born from a nightmare. The loathsome red grass he had noted before had grown into huge, ten-foot tall stalks of oozing, writhing foulness.

Frond-like tentacles twitched around the tip of each stalk, each frond marked with slobbering, sucking mouths along its length. The huge weeds were all around Devseh, their tentacles canvassing the mammoth’s shaggy body, wrapping tightly across the beast and holding it fast. Devseh seemed to be visibly withering as the hellish plants gorged themselves upon its blood.

More hideous still were the smaller, shrieking bundles that twisted and struggled across the ground, trapped inside cocoons of tentacular vegetation. While Dorgo watched, a Tsavag warrior attacked one of the cocoons, hacking at it with an axe. Where the blade struck the leafy appendage, pulpy black syrup exploded, spraying across the grey earth.

Everywhere the filthy sap struck, bloody fingers of grass sprouted from the ground. They did not grow with the slow, eerie grace of their predecessors, but burst into full murderous size with a rapidity that was almost faster than the eye could follow. The warrior who thought to rescue his fellow was surrounded in an instant by slobbering, ravenous weeds that lashed at him with their slimy limbs.

The man fought against his hideous foes, but every blow simply spattered more sap across the ground, birthing more of the horrors. Soon, he was pulled down, his body criss-crossed by sucking, gnawing tentacles. Muffled screams struggled against the suffocating mass clapped around his head.

Dorgo started to rush towards his trapped tribesmen, but was restrained by a firm clutch upon his shoulder. He spun to find Sanya at his side. The Sul’s expression was grim, forbidding, her eyes as hard as chips of steel.

“There is nothing you can do,” she told him, her voice pitiless and commanding. “This land has claimed them.”

Dorgo pulled away, glaring at the sorceress. He fought down the impulse to strike her down, knowing that to do so would doom his people.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Sanya smiled. “If you die here, the last hope of your people dies with you. Throw your life away trying to save men who are already dead and you abandon the entire domain to the mercy of Khorne and the Skulltaker!”

The woman’s words ripped into Dorgo like the fangs of a viper, his agony all the more keen because her’s was the poison of truth. If he fell here, if the Bloodeater was lost, the Tsavags were lost with it. He had seen what the Skulltaker was. He knew there would be no mercy from such a creature, not for his people, not for anyone.

“You’re not going to listen to the witch?” Togmol demanded. He clenched a long axe in his fists, every muscle in his body twitching with the urge to attack. When Dorgo did not answer, Togmol cursed him and made to lunge past his leader. Dorgo caught him by the arm, spinning Togmol back around.

“Don’t you think I want to attack that filth?” Dorgo growled, his voice bristling with violence. “Rescue our kinsmen, or avenge them if they are dead? But the witch is right, we would be damning more than ourselves if we tried! The entire tribe is depending on us.”

Togmol cursed him again, spitting at his feet, but the big warrior made no further effort to charge into the writhing field. Like an angry panther, he stalked away.

Dorgo watched him, and then reluctantly turned back to face the weeds. The cocoons strewn across the ground were still, the fronds pulsing as they drained every last drop from their victims. Devseh was all but lost beneath a layer of leafy tentacles. Qotagir continued to scramble across the mammoth’s body, trying to cut away the foul appendages. His efforts were worse than futile, spattering more blood and sap across the ground, encouraging still more stalks to sprout from the earth. Dorgo felt even more sharply the guilt and self-loathing that his decision had forced upon him. There was no way to reach the old mahout, no way to rescue him from the bloodsucking weeds that surrounded him. Dorgo forced himself to turn away before Qotagir saw him. He knew that if he met the doomed man’s gaze, the memory would haunt him all his days.

They would find the Black Altar. They would remake the sword of Teiyogtei. The Skulltaker would pay for the men devoured by this filthy land. This Dorgo swore by all his ancestors and the one god who favoured oaths of vengeance and blood, the same god the Skulltaker served: Khorne.