Blood for the Blood God

14

Snapping, snarling, hissing, the fiends of the dark fell upon Dorgo and his companions like a black tide of shadow. Dorgo lashed out with his sword, feeling the blade chop through something too soft to be human flesh, like cutting into boiled mutton. Runny treacle, stagnant and cloying, spurted from the body of the shadow he had struck, spattering his face with syrupy filth. Dorgo gagged at the revolting stench, the smell of spoiled fruit and sour wine. The ichor burned where it touched him, sending a fiery numbness through his face.

The haunters of the tunnel did not relent, surging over the ruin of their mangled kindred to close upon the stunned Tsavag. Dorgo rallied against the lethargy the smell of the creature’s treacle evoked in his limbs and in his mind. Through the warm, fuzzy cloud that closed around his thoughts, Dorgo imagined the vision of his people, of his father, being butchered by the Skulltaker. The hideous rune of Khorne flared from the helm of the Skulltaker, shining like sunfire in his brain.

It was Dorgo’s turn to snap and snarl and hiss. His blade flashed through the gloom of the tunnel, hacking and tearing into the delicate meat of the things in the dark. Bubbling cries, half-human moans of death and agony, echoed through the blackness. A flare of purple fire blazed from somewhere behind him and a new smell filled the passageway, the stink of something burning in its own fat and the rancour of scales crumbling into ash.

Dorgo heard Sanya gasp in fright, and he wondered what she had seen by the light of her spell. Then there was no time for questions as the nameless, hissing horde descended upon them once more.

There was something, some vile suggestion of speech and intelligence in the susurrus that whispered through the darkness. Dorgo had the impression of arms and faces striking at him from the shadows, felt crude clubs of bone crack against his mammoth-hide hauberk. He felt claws clutch at his hair, stumbled as something thick and wormy tried to coil around his leg. Fangs ripped at his arm, sinking deep into his flesh as they stabbed through his armour. How many had he cut down? It seemed to him like dozens, hundreds, yet still there were more. Were these degenerate things men? Were they even mortal?

Sanya’s voice rose in a piercing scream. Dorgo struggled to free himself from the clutching press of horrors clustered around him, clinging to him like flies on a carcass. Across from him, he could hear Ulagan struggling to do the same. It was more than their need for the sorceress, the desperate knowledge that without her the Skulltaker could not be stopped. The fact that she was human was enough to goad them on, to strive against the clawing mass of their numberless foes. Nothing human should be abandoned to such a fate.

Trying to reach Sanya was like swimming against the tide. Her screams became faint, distant as she was borne away by her attackers, carried off down one of the side passages. The effort had taken a terrible toll on the two Tsavags. Their bodies were masses of cuts and bruises, battered and clawed by the violent attentions of the things in the darkness.

With hideous clarity, Dorgo understood that the only reason they were still alive was because the things didn’t want to kill them. They had some other purpose, some vileness beyond ambush and murder in store for these men who had invaded their forbidden world. The realisation made Dorgo fight all the harder to free himself from the weak, wormy limbs that clung to him, trying to pull him down. His hand was an iron fist moulded around the hilt of his sword, defying the claws that strove to tear the weapon free.

Again and again, Dorgo felt his legs buckle, felt his strength ebb. His endurance was failing against the merciless assault, and he knew that soon he must succumb. He spat curses on his foes, damning them by gods and ancestors both. Raspy laughter hissed from the throng. They knew that their victory was at hand.

A fierce war cry roared through the blackness, drowning out the diseased mockery of the creatures. Dorgo’s flagging spirit lifted as he heard that piercing shout: a Tsavag war cry, the blood-howl of a Tong warrior. The shout was followed by the sound of metal sheering through flesh, and the whimpering moans of the things as their bodies were ripped apart by the avenging blade.

Dorgo felt the clinging grip around his limbs abandon its hold abruptly as first one and then all of his attackers retreated into the darkness. A rustling, crawling noise fled down the tunnel as the creatures slithered back into their holes. With the retreat of the monsters, the meagre illumination provided by the moss on the walls was able to reassert itself, no longer blocked by the bodies of the degenerate horde.

By the feeble light of the moss, Dorgo could see Ulagan leaning against the opposite wall, his spear a broken shaft around which his tentacle was coiled, his normal arm dripping from a grisly gash in his shoulder. The scout’s face was purple with bruises, one eye swollen shut. While he watched, Ulagan spat a tooth into the passage, and then stooped to recover it, fearful that some witch might collect it and use it to enslave his soul.

Dorgo did not need a mirror to know that he was in little better shape than Ulagan. He could feel every cut and bruise flaring with pain as he moved. Somehow, despite the beating they had suffered, Dorgo felt that their rescuer managed to look even worse.

Togmol stood almost in the very centre of the tunnel, his eyes so wide with fear that they looked like they belonged to an owl, not a Tsavag warrior. His breath came in short, hurried gulps, and his skin was so pallid that it was almost corpse-like. Togmol barely registered the presence of the men he had saved, looking instead at the walls and ceiling, turning his head in quick, panicked jerks. Finally, he dropped his broad-axe, slapping one palm against the wall and another against the ceiling of the tunnel. Veins popped out in his neck as Togmol exerted his tremendous strength against the unyielding stone.

Cautiously, Dorgo stepped over to Togmol, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The warrior flinched at his touch. A flicker of reason edged its way into the fear-crazed eyes. He relented in his vainglorious effort to widen the narrow tunnel.

“Our lives are yours,” Dorgo told Togmol. “If you hadn’t come down after us, we’d be lost.”

Togmol only briefly glanced at Dorgo as he spoke. The warrior’s eyes kept straying back to the moss-splotched walls. “Find something else for me to kill before I regret the choice,” he said, every word pushed through clenched teeth.

Dorgo nodded grimly. He could see how greatly being down in the narrow, suffocating tunnels was taking its toll on Togmol’s courage. Cheen the Deceiver, it was said, placed within every brave heart some terrible secret fear, a weakness that the god could exploit if ever he sought the man’s ruin. In the grip of his fear, every breath was an effort for Togmol, an ordeal the other Tsavags could only imagine.

“Have a look at what you’ll be killing first,” said Ulagan. The scout had draped a bunch of moss over the splintered end of his spear, fashioning a weird flameless torch. He held the improvised light over one of the creatures killed during the battle. It was nearly man-sized, lean and wiry with long thin arms that seemed almost boneless. The head was wedge-shaped, pulled into a flattened snout. Even in death there was a crazed depravity in the thing’s beady pink eyes. Slender curved fangs protruded from the wide mouth, while the nose was only a pair of holes set between the eyes. The body was a greasy grey, coated in fine scales that felt at once smooth and cold.

The first corpse Ulagan inspected lacked legs. Beneath the creature’s trunk was nothing but a snakelike tail as thin and wretched as the rest of its degenerate body. Others were more human in their form, though all were stunted and starved, gangrel things from some obscene world beneath the borderland.

The loathsome sight of the abominations impressed even Togmol, distracting him for the moment from the pressing closeness of the tunnel. Dorgo spat, his skin crawling with the knowledge that such creatures had touched him.

“We might have to fight more of them to get out of here,” Ulagan warned, noting the disgust on Dorgo’s face.

“We will fight more of them,” Dorgo agreed, his voice sharper than steel. “They’ve taken Sanya. We have to get her back.”

Ulagan cursed, kicking the ophidian skull of the closest creature. “Harpies take that witch!” the scout snarled. He pointed to the passageway behind Togmol.

“The snakes took her down there.” He turned and stabbed his finger in the other direction. “The current is coming from that way. Let the worms keep the Sul slut!”

Dorgo stalked towards the scout, grabbing his hide tunic and pulling him close. “No one is running,” he growled. “The life of the tribe depends on us bringing back a weapon that can kill the Skulltaker. To do that, we need Sanya!”

“How do we do that?” Ulagan returned, shaking free of Dorgo’s grip. “The animals scattered in every direction when they fled! How do we find the ones that took the witch?”

“They didn’t scatter in every direction,” Togmol said. “None passed me when I attacked.” Ulagan scowled as Togmol spoke, but Dorgo failed to appreciate the importance of his words. “If any of them withdrew back down the tunnel, they did so before I arrived,” he explained. “The only ones that would have had cause to do so would be the ones carrying off a captive.”

The explanation brought a flicker of hope to Dorgo. He turned back to Ulagan, gesturing at the floor of the tunnel. “Some of them were wounded. You can follow their trail?”

“The way out is the other way,” protested the hunter.

“If we do not find Sanya, there is no way out,” Dorgo corrected him in tones colder than the murk of the tunnel.

Hutga looked across the valley behind him at the assembled warhost of the Tsavags: nine-hundred warriors and their families, over a hundred full-grown mammoths and a dozen more too old or too young to bear the tribe. It was a gathering that had been drawn from every encampment across the territory of the tribe, a gathering such as had not been seen since before the days of Hutga’s great-grandfather when the dragon Kohba had invaded the domain. Many were dead before the dragon was brought down, and long was the mourning.

He hoped this gathering would not have such tragic echoes, or perhaps he hoped it would. For there to be tears, there must be men to shed them. That meant that the tribe would survive. It was survival that they were fighting for, survival against a force that the Seifan and Vaan were too foolish to see. There had been a Skulltaker. He had been the ruin of Teiyogtei Khagan, the greatest scourge to ever strike against the domain and the people of the Horde. He had returned, returned to claim those who had taken the flesh of Teiyogtei, who wore the tatters of his crown.

The valley of Ikar’s Refuge backed into the mountains, into passes only the Tsavags knew. The tribe could fend off even the army of the Vaan for months if they had to. It would be a hard fight and many of the old and the young would die from the privations they would be forced to endure. Holding off the Vaan would not be the problem. Beating them was the problem.

The khagan sighed as his tired eyes scanned the horizon. Where were the Sul? The messengers he had sent to the sorcerers had returned. They had promised to aid their allies, to meet them at Ikar’s Refuge. With the magic of the Sul, the Tsavags could beat the Vaan and the Seifan. Retreating into the barren passes would be unnecessary.

A shout came up from the lookouts at the mouth of the valley. Hutga started, leaning forwards on his throne as he saw the men scrambling down from their perches among the rocks. Before they could finish their descent, black shapes swooped down on them from the darkening sky: furies, called up by the black magic of the Seifan. The Sul had waited too long to bring aid to their allies.

Hutga roared at his tribesmen, ordering everyone to climb into their mammoths’ howdahs. War was upon them sooner than they had expected. Men hurried to load their families onto the platforms of ivory and wood. Ropes were cast down, and food and water pulled up onto the backs of the huge shaggy beasts.

Hutga scowled at the confusion. Men who fought fearlessly could still know panic when the lives of their women and children were in peril. He wondered if it would have been better to send them ahead into the passes, but realised that leaving them undefended would be an even worse burden to place upon his warriors. The Seifan were a slippery enemy, one that could be anywhere.

Hutga’s mistake had been believing that the Hung would not attack without their Kurgan allies. Craven scavengers, he had expected the Seifan to wait until the Vaan could march with them. He had not reckoned upon them acting alone.

Riders appeared at the mouth of the valley. Hutga could see the horsehair standards of the Seifan rising over the host: hundreds of horsemen, dozens of scythe-wheeled chariots. Shen, or whoever was master of the Seifan, had mustered the entire tribe for war.

Hutga spat as he saw the Hung assemble. For all their tricks and bravado, the Seifan were overly bold. Numerous as they were, they did not consider the strength of the Tsavags. Each of Hutga’s warriors was worth five of the cringing jackals of the Seifan. Each of the Tong’s mammoths was worth a hundred of their horsemen. It had been too long since the Seifan had faced Hutga’s people in open battle. The Hung would pay for their inexperience.

The boom of drums thundered across Ikar’s Refuge, and the roar of bronze horns echoed from the heights. The riders of the Seifan drew aside, making way for the marching columns of their allies. A crawling carpet of black armour surged into the valley, skull-tipped banners flying above their massed ranks: the Vaan, in the past, a force mighty enough on its own to unite the tribes of the domain against it. Now, that balance was broken. Ratha smelled the long-frustrated destiny of his people in the wind.

Hutga cursed as he climbed up the side of his war mammoth, abandoning his throne in the grass below. He had underestimated the cunning of the Seifan. Even as they sent their messenger to him, the Vaan had been on the march, near enough to support their allies when Hutga rejected their treacherous scheme.

Perhaps that had been their intention all along, to goad Hutga into gathering his people into one place where they could be vanquished in one fell swoop.

Retreat into the passes was a bitter choice. The Seifan riders would be able to overtake the mammoths in the short run. Giving battle to the Seifan would cost the Tsavags time, time that the Vaan would use to bring up their warriors. Hutga thought little of the fighting abilities of the Seifan, but he knew better than to dismiss those of the Vaan. Fighter for fighter, they were the equal of the Tsavags, Hutga conceded bitterly. Vaan spear-launchers would reek havoc among the mammoths, and with the Seifan cavalry to cover for them, it would be desperate work to fight a path to the fiendish Kurgan weapons.

Hutga cast his eyes to the heavens and cursed again. Where were the Sul? The sorcerers had just as much to lose from a Vaan victory as the Tsavags. Ratha would spare nothing to destroy his most hated rivals, and with the Tsavags defeated, there would be nothing to prevent him from bringing the full fury of his tribe against Enek Zjarr.

Hutga shuddered as he suddenly considered why the Sul hadn’t come. It need not be treachery. Perhaps they didn’t come because they couldn’t come. Perhaps the sorcerers had abandoned their allies because they were beset by a worse foe.

It was too much to believe that a small thing like war would make the Skulltaker idle.

A gigantic cavern yawned below them, stretching it seemed to the edge of the world. Forests of glowing moss dripped from the walls, and hung from the ceiling in drooping clumps. A great river of black water crawled through the cavern sluggishly, gurgling loudly as it dropped into a deep pool, a sunken lake that sprawled across hundreds of yards at its widest point. It was from the lake that the cold, rancid smell of primordial evil emanated, filling the tunnels with its corrupt stench. A fell luminescence shone from far beneath the black waters, a soft dim light that was at once alluring and repulsive.

Above the rush of subterranean waters was another sound, a tumult to chill the blood of even a Tsavag warrior. It was a hissing chorus of debased voices raised in a slithering chant, like a nest of vipers singing praises to their reptilian gods.

By the glow of the moss, the men could see a vast throng of pale, scaly things writhing and swaying to the discordant harmony of the chant. Gazing upon it was like looking at a leprous sea of deformity and corruption, an idiot ocean of abomination and degeneracy. Had these things been men once? It was a horror to strike loathing into any man’s heart.

The gods were capricious in their gifts and terrible in their wrath, yet to see such evidence of their horrific power as these snake-men was as humbling as it was terrifying.

Dorgo steeled his heart, gesturing beyond the swaying, hissing mass of snake-men to the crude altar beyond them. Cut from some sickly green stone, veined with strange ores of purple and alabaster, the altar was crafted in tremendous proportions. Twenty feet high, nearly twice as long, it looked as though it had been carved by giants.

Strange, twisted shapes adorned its sides, crude inhuman figures that cavorted around the altar in scenes of grotesque lasciviousness. The carvings leered out from the stone, mocking, enticing, daring those who gazed upon them to look away.

Lashed across the top of the altar, looking as tiny as an infant upon the oversized stone, was Sanya. Her cloak and raiment had been torn away, leaving her body bare before the serpentine eyes of her captors. Two snake-men, hideous in their deformities, sat upon the altar beside her. Each held a hollowed skull in its hand, into which they dipped their scrawny claws. When the claws emerged, they were stained black with oily pigment. Carefully, hissing their vile litanies, the serpent-creatures painted crawling runes on Sanya’s skin, consecrating her flesh in some abominable rite.

“Waste of a good woman, even if she is a stinking backbiting Sul,” swore Ulagan. “But that puts an end to it. There must be hundreds of them down there!”

“These things fight like rats,” growled Togmol. “I won’t run from vermin.” The big warrior was a little more at ease in the vast cavern, though he still cast suspicious glances at the rocky roof overhead.

“Vermin or men,” Dorgo snarled, “we can’t let them keep her.”

Ulagan glared at his companions, incredulous at what he was hearing. His tentacle-arm twitched angrily around the splintered length of his spear. “We don’t have a choice!” he snapped. “There’re three of us and an entire mountain of these things! You say we need to rescue her or we’ll never find the Black Altar. I say how will we find it if we’re dead!”

“Togmol is right,” Dorgo said. “These creatures are poor fighters, no match for men.”

“They did a fair job in the tunnels,” protested Ulagan.

Dorgo’s eyes turned from the altar-stone and the swaying snake-men. The three Tsavags had entered the cavern through a narrow passage that opened upon a shelf of rock. The shelf overlooked the cavern like a balcony projecting some distance into the vast chamber. Unlike the slopes of the hill above this underworld, the walls were rocky and jagged, offering easy handholds for anything less twisted in shape than the snake-men. Whether because they feared no enemy in this holy of holies or because they were unable to descend from the shelf, the snake-men had placed no sentries. Every degenerate in the cavern was focused upon the obscene ritual.

“That is because they surprised us,” said Dorgo. “This time we surprise them.” He did not give the scout time to voice new protest, partially because he feared Ulagan’s words might sway him from his purpose. For all his brave words and display of self-assurance, Dorgo had few delusions about their chances. Still, the gods sometimes favoured the hopeless, at least if they were bold in their rush to self-destruction.

Dorgo scrambled down the jagged cavern wall like some toe-clawed zhaga. His grip failed him before he reached the floor. The warrior braced himself, falling the final ten feet. He could feel the impact in his bones as his feet smacked into the rocks below, his knees buckling as they absorbed the shock. The instant of numb confusion quickly passed, and in a flash his sword was back in his hand, his eyes glaring at the reptilian throng. Whatever noise his violent descent made, it was lost in the hissing chant of the snake-men.

A clatter of stones and curses announced the end of Togmol’s descent. The big warrior landed in a jumble of limbs and obscenities, his broad-axe clattering across the rock floor. Embarrassment more than pain coloured Togmol’s face as he rose from the ground and scrambled to recover his axe. Even the din caused by his fall had failed to impress itself upon the snake-men. Dorgo stared in disbelief at the creatures as they continued to sway and hiss. The things had to be deaf not to have heard Togmol fall!

By contrast, Ulagan landed on the ground with a grace and silence that shamed his companions. The hunter rolled his eyes as he watched Togmol jog back from recovering his weapon, and then turned towards Dorgo. “I still say this is madness,” he whispered.

“Put as much energy into killing as complaining and we’ll do all right,” Dorgo told him. He gestured with his sword at the swaying, serpentine shapes. The throng was only a hundred yards from them, yet they hadn’t shown the slightest sign of noticing the men. Maybe they weren’t deaf. Maybe they were so mesmerised by their ritual that they were oblivious to everything else. Either way, the snake-men would regret their lack of caution. “These worms won’t know we’re here until we send a few heads rolling across the floor.”

“What then?” Ulagan challenged. “You don’t think we can kill them all, do you?”

“No, but I’ll have fun finding out,” growled Togmol. He cast one last, worried look at the ceiling overhead, and tightened his grip on his axe. A bellowing roar erupted from the big man’s lungs and he charged towards the snake-men.

Dorgo grinned at Ulagan, happy that the die had been irrevocably cast. There was no more time for thinking, for weighing every decision, for considering every move. There was only carnage and the feel of flesh beneath his blade.

“You heard the man!” he shouted at the scout. Dorgo’s feet pounded against the uneven floor as he raced after the charging Togmol.

Even as Togmol rushed at them, the snake-men gave no sign of reaction. They continued to hiss and sway, writhing in the throes of some debased fervour. The Tsavag was upon them, his axe cleaving through a wormy neck to send its wedge-shaped head flying through the gloom. The things around the butchered reptile gave no notice to the slaughter, but continued to hiss and sway.

A second snake-man was cut down, and then a third. Dorgo was among the monsters, his sword stabbing through the buttery flesh of the abominations. Ulagan howled the death chant of the Tsavags, thrusting the ruin of his spear into scaly backs, and raking the edge of his weapon across sinewy necks.

A dozen or so of the reptiles were cut down before Dorgo became aware of the scent. Sweet and seductive, at once horrible and wondrous, it drowned his senses. His head swam and his eyes watered. He heard the dull clatter of metal against stone as Togmol’s broadaxe fell from his slackened grip.

Ulagan crumpled against the ground, shuddering in the clutch of some ecstatic fit. Dorgo fought to tighten his hand around the hilt of his weapon, but he could feel it slipping through his numb fingers.

The snake-men upon the altar had finished painting their slithering sigils upon Sanya’s skin. They looked down upon her would-be rescuers, a hollow amusement shining from their cloudy eyes. The strange power that held their kindred, the terrible force that exerted itself against the Tsavags, did not seem to affect these two.

Priests or sorcerers, the foul power did not hold them within its coils of desire and devotion, mindless slaves to their ardour. One of the snake-shamans took notice of Dorgo’s efforts to retain hold of his weapon. The observation increased its cruel amusement. Its claw began to glow with a pearly light and as it swept its talon through the air, a burning rune was scorched into the emptiness above the altar. It was a sign that Dorgo knew: the horned sun, the mark of Shornaal, the Prince of Forsaken Delight, the Great Tempter.

Like all of the greater gods, Shornaal was a force to be feared as much as worshipped. He could destroy a man from within, using his secret desires, the denied passions of the flesh to corrupt and overwhelm. A mighty warrior became drunkard, lecher, root-fiend and worse under his consuming touch. Old joys faded into bitterness, old pleasures became empty as those bearing his mark forced themselves ever further to find new experiences to replace the small delights that no longer stirred their spirits.

Shornaal promised much to those who bent their knee before him and abandoned all other powers, but in return he demanded everything. Debased and vile, the snake-men had found the final foulness wearing the chains of Slaanesh.

Dorgo felt the god’s seductive power flooding through him, the burrowing whisper of Shornaal’s voice in his mind. Mocking promises, enticing lies, and a thousand depraved images called out to all the vileness in his soul. The warrior could almost feel his soul being leeched from his body as it reached out to the phantom delights of Shornaal’s hollow kingdom. Dorgo forced what little remained of his will into his hand, into the slackened fingers that still brushed against the hilt of his sword.

His arm hung limp at his side, the sword dragging against the ground beside him as he stumbled towards the altar and the black pool beyond. With every rock it scraped against, every faltering step, the sword threatened to spill from his numbed touch. Dorgo knew that if he lost the weapon, he lost his only anchor to reality, his only protection against the sweet lies of the voice crawling through his soul.

The luminescence in the pool began to grow more vibrant, as though something was rising from the black depths of the subterranean lake. It burned with the same pearly light that had surrounded the claw of the snake-man, and as it rose, Dorgo felt the seductive perfume of the cavern grow stronger and the words and urges of the voice grow fierce and demanding. The hissing chant of the snake-men became a deafening susurrus, their swaying contortions frenzied.

The black waters of the pool bubbled and boiled as the light continued its rise. Dorgo’s entranced march had brought him past the altar, past the gloating serpent-priests and their captive. He felt the icy water of the pool splash against his feet, yet even this sensation, the knowledge that some loathsome doom was about to consume him, could not break the siren-spell that held him.

Blindingly, the light burst from the depths. It was light without form or shape, burning like some carnal star in the dark below the world. Water crashed around it, swirling in a spout of violence and fury. If the light was without shape, the tempest was not. Wraithlike, bodies took form within the coils of the tempest, contorting and writhing in lascivious obscenity, a spectacle of revulsion born from the madness of a depraved god. These were the spirits of those trapped by the lies of Shornaal, bound forever in the emptiness of their corruption.

The swirling water spout rose from the pool, wrapping itself around the shapeless luminescence. Tighter and tighter, faster and faster, the water and the spirit-shapes bound within it closed around the light, binding it within a shell of foulness. The light infused the waters, leeching the darkness from them, turning them from black to yellow. The liquid shape became firm, solid, a thing that looked to Dorgo to be flesh and bone. With horror, he realised that this thing was not unknown to him. Many terrible daemons were recorded in the legends of the Tsavags, but none so foul as Ya’sheen, the Yellow Worm.

It was more serpent than worm, a great viper with six eyes of glistening pearl and a vast body, smooth and shiny with slime. What Dorgo thought were knots of purple veins showing beneath the daemon’s smooth flesh proved to be the writhing figures of its slaves, locked in their unending abominations. The daemon’s face was pulled into a tapering snout, narrow and somehow insect-like. A great, lash-like tongue oozed from the thing’s toothless mouth, flicking through the darkness.

The tongue of Ya’sheen flashed across the water. Dorgo felt its sting against his cheek as it whipped around his head. The oily, slimy evil of the thing made his flesh crawl with foul excitement. He could actually feel the envy of the snake-men, the resentment of Togmol and Ulagan, that he had been embraced by this living fane of Shornaal. Dorgo knew he was lost, knew he was damned, and knew that he did not care.

The wetness of the daemon’s tongue slithered through his hair, down his face. He felt its dampness against his mouth, against his eyes, against his mind. Thoughts and memories drained out of him as the daemon drank them, savouring every experience that had marked his young life. He saw his first love vanish into the daemon’s hunger, and the face of the first man he had killed devoured by the daemon’s appetite. Every meal, every smell, every touch, all of it faded into the Yellow Worm’s lust.

Then the daemon shuddered. Dorgo could dimly see the twin rows of eyes on Ya’sheen’s head darken, fading from pearl to amber. Beads of crimson trickled down its ophidian face, tears of blood. The tongue, once so warm and enticing became dry and leathery. It recoiled from Dorgo, shooting back into the daemon’s tapered snout. He felt his memories crash back into his mind. First among them was the one that had struck the daemon with such horror. It was the memory of a lone warrior with a skull-faced helm and bronze antlers that formed the rune of Khorne.

The returned memory was clouded by the perception of Ya’sheen. Where Dorgo had seen a man, the daemon had seen the power within. Dorgo could see a great shadow surrounding the Skulltaker, and a ravenous hunger that made the appetite of Ya’sheen tawdry by comparison. There was rage and fury and havoc, and the iron stamp of terror and carnage. Now Dorgo understood. He knew what it was that hunted his tribe.

Slackened fingers became a fist of steel around the hilt of his sword. No longer did the seductive musk of the Yellow Worm hold him in its clutches. That power had been burned from his mind by the image of the Skulltaker. Before the wrath of that power, the fury of Khorne, all the lies and promises of Shornaal were but wisps and illusions.

The Yellow Worm reeled from the hostile force it had drawn into itself. A thing of emotion and thought, the memory it had drawn from Dorgo was more deadly than any blade. The daemon did not bother to discard its shape, to become once more a thing of light and shadow. It sank back into the depths with shameless abandon, the clinging stink of its terror filling the cavern.

Dorgo spun as something launched itself at him from the side. His sword crunched through the breast of one of the serpent-priests. The creature scrabbled madly at him as its syrupy blood bubbled from its chest. Dorgo ripped his weapon free as the dying monster flopped into the turbulent pool, sinking after its fleeing god.

All around the cavern, the hissing chant of the snake-men had been broken. A cacophony of fear echoed from the glowing walls, the near-mindless terror of degenerate horrors that had forsaken the right to be called men. Bound body and soul to the seducing musk of the daemon, they were similarly consumed by the daemon’s fear. A slithering, wailing mob scattered into the gloom, pursued by the vengeful blades of Togmol and Ulagan. The routed snake-men offered no resistance to the Tsavags. It was butchery, not battle.

Dorgo leapt up the uneven blocks of stone that formed a crude stairway behind the altar. Alone of the snake-men, the priests had been immune to the numbing perfume of their god. So too had they proven immune to Ya’sheen’s terror. One had ended its life gamely on Dorgo’s blade. The other moved with more cruel purpose in its mind. It had guessed why the men had invaded its sanctuary, what they had hoped to accomplish. It did not know how Dorgo had hurt its god, but it knew how it could hurt Dorgo.

The serpent-priest was poised above Sanya, a dagger of bone in its hand. The thing turned its head in the warrior’s direction, its scaly lips pulling back in a contemptuous sneer of hate. Dorgo despaired as he saw the monster’s arm sweep downwards, striking for the woman’s pale breast.

The bone dagger never struck. Before it could sink into Sanya’s heart, a blaze of sapphire light gathered around the snake-man’s head. The snake-man seemed to soak up the burning light, absorbing the blue brilliance into its skull. An instant later, the skull exploded, splashing blood and brains across the altar. The priest’s body collapsed against Sanya, twitching and writhing as life drained out of it. Dorgo kicked the squirming carcass off the woman, watching as it fell over the side of the platform.

“Get me free!” snarled Sanya. The sorceress tugged at the strips of scaly hide that bound her to the stone. Dorgo smiled at the woman. For a moment, he was almost able to forget that she was both a Sul and a witch.

“I’ll look better with this filth washed off me,” Sanya complained, scowling at him.

Dorgo’s sword slashed through the thongs, freeing her arms. He left the legs for her to see to. He pointed to a disordered heap lying beside the altar, the jumbled pile of her clothes and equipment.

“Your belongings are over there,” Dorgo said, turning his back on Sanya. He started to climb down, to catch Togmol and Ulagan before they chased the snake-men too far into the tunnels.

“Sanya?” he called out. He looked back and saw the woman watching him. There was something uncomfortable about her expression, and he reminded himself again that she was a Sul.

“If you take a bath, I’d advise against dipping into the pool,” he said, and then hurried to find his kinsmen. Facing all the snakes under the mountain was safer than the things he was turning over in his mind.