Blood for the Blood God

5

The isolated hill stood in a narrow pass, surrounded by craggy towers of jagged rock. The slopes of the rise were barren, devoid of even the merest weed, the stink of death exuding from the very rocks. A great monolith, a huge dolman of black stone, rose from the top of the hill, its surface pitted with angular runes. The monolith had been worn down by time and the elements, its once sharp edges smoothed by wind and rain. An aura of antiquity clung to it, discernible even through the murk of death that hovered around the hill.

The weight of centuries imposed itself upon Hutga Khagan as he marched towards the hill. It had all started here, where Teiyogtei had fought his battle against the Skulltaker so long ago. The king was entombed within the hill, beneath the monolith his horde had raised to honour their fallen warlord. The place was sacred to all the tribes of the domain. Even the brutish warherd of the gors paid honour to the king. It was the one place where no tribe could take up arms against another, a taboo that had never been broken.

Hutga took only one warrior with him as he marched to the hill. Each chieftain was allowed only one companion when he attended the gathering. More might tempt an ambitious man to break the ancient taboo. Hutga allowed his son the prestige of accompanying him.

One day, if the gods willed it, Dorgo would become the leader of the Tsavags. Attending the gathering would allow him the rare opportunity to observe the men who would be his most dangerous foes, to take the measure of his rival chieftains and prepare his people in the struggle against them.

The khagan smiled at the thought. If the Skulltaker was not stopped, there would be no one for Dorgo to lead, no other tribes for him to oppose.

The Skulltaker would scour the domain of life as surely as one of the firestorms that swept through the Barrens of Char when the moons waxed full and the solstice drew near. There would be nothing left behind, only mounds of heads to the glory of Khorne. No man would be shown mercy and neither woman nor child would know pity. Only death had a place in the Skulltaker’s march.

As he approached the hill, Hutga could see a company of warriors in black armour emerge from one of the passes. The coal-black iron plates, the horned helms and crimson banners marked the warriors as belonging to the Vaan. Most powerful of the Kurgan tribes, the Vaan were more dangerous in their way than the Muhak.

Lacking the mutant strength of the Muhak, the Vaan used discipline and cunning to win their battles. Legions of goblin slaves toiled in the mines beneath Blood Rock, the ancient fortress of the tribe, feeding the forges and smithies of the Vaan, helping them build their terrible war machine, to equip their legions of iron-skinned axemen, to craft the cruel missiles of their spear-throwers and the spiked bludgeons of their berserkers.

Despised and reviled as they were, Hutga knew that but for the sorcery of the Sul, the Vaan would have swept aside the other tribes long ago.

The procession of armoured warriors stopped at the mouth of the pass, forming a wall of grim iron across the opening. A huge man emerged from their ranks, towering over the others. The plates of iron that covered him were edged in gold, his gauntlets set with gemstones. A broad, boar-faced helm covered his head, tusks curling up from its sides to form a pair of forward-jutting spikes.

In his hands, the man carried a grisly weapon, a long thick-bladed axe of bronze, scalps dangling from silver rings set into its haft. Runes of slaughter and carnage were etched into the blade and its edge glowed with a scarlet sheen. The inward surface of the hoop was lined with sharp metal teeth and great bladed prongs slanted outwards where the circle of steel lay open.

The weapon was infamous among the tribes: the holy weapon of the Vaan, which they called “Crippler”, handed down to their first chieftain by Teiyogtei when the Kurgans were absorbed into his horde. The warrior who carried it could only be their zar, Ratha, a brute upon the battlefield, as arrogant and terrible as his god. Like the Skulltaker, the Vaan were devoted to Khorne alone of the great powers. That fact wouldn’t spare them the attentions of the Skulltaker, however. Khorne’s minions, more so than the followers of other gods, were notoriously unconcerned about what manner of blood they spilled and who died upon their blades.

Like Hutga, Zar Ratha left his procession behind, taking with him only a single warrior bearing the crimson standard of his tribe: a field of blood upon which two blackened axes were crossed. The Kurgan left behind by the zar set up a shout as Ratha walked away, crashing their axes against their shields, a din that echoed from the craggy slopes. Hutga felt a moment of anxiety. He’d left his retinue far behind in the pass, a few score warriors and a pair of mammoths.

Ratha’s force was larger, and much closer. Even the Vaan would not violate the taboo, but there was nothing to prevent them from slinking through the passes and murdering him as he left the gathering. Hutga shook his head. Such untoward tactics were the province of the Hung tribes. Ratha had too much arrogance, too much contempt for his rivals to resort to underhanded strategies. If the Vaan were to attack, it would be in the open where their gory god could look down upon their deeds.

“Keep your eyes open, your wits sharp and your hand on your blade,” Hutga whispered to Dorgo just the same.

Even if the Vaan had no penchant for ambush and assassination, the other tribes had few qualms about taking every advantage of their enemies. The Hung tribes, the Sul, Veh-Kung and Seifan, in particular took a cruel delight in treachery and deceit. Killing enemies after the gathering would appeal to their wicked nature.

Dorgo nodded his understanding, and Hutga could tell that the only way his enemies would claim him was over the corpse of his son. In normal times, there would be little danger. The tribes knew the prophecy that guarded their chieftains, that they could not fall by the blade of even another chieftain, but if word of Lok’s death had spread, it might have caused strange thoughts to spread through the domain.

Hutga reached the hill at almost the same time as the two Vaan began to mount the barren slope of brittle red stone. Up close, he could see that what had appeared to be armour from across the plain was in fact a variety of iron plates grafted onto the bare flesh of the warriors. The gold edging was the bronzed skin of the Kurgans showing between the metal plates. Ratha’s boar-faced helm stared silently at the two Tong emissaries, and then his iron-covered hands rose, lifting it from his head.

The countenance beneath was rugged, the nose splintered by an old wound, the chin square and heavy beneath its hairy black beard. Eyes like chips of ice regarded the Tsavags with frigid disdain.

“Ironbelly and his pup,” the Vaan zar sneered. “Any other time, in any other place, I would praise Khorne for such an opportunity.” His fingers tightened around the bronze heft of his axe until his knuckles cracked. “Thank your ancestors that the Vaan honour the truce of the barrow.”

“One day our herds will trample Blood Rock flat,” Dorgo snarled. “The Tsavag are not belly-licking goblins to crawl beneath the boots of mongrel-scum like the Vaan.”

Ratha smiled at the young warrior, his expression as cold and cheerless as a viper’s. “Your pup has a tongue, Ironbelly. Teach him to curb it or I’ll pluck it out and make him eat it.”

Hutga pushed his son back, scolding him for his emotion. The chieftains played a twisted game among themselves at the gatherings, trying to goad each other into flying into a rage and breaking the truce. Such a chieftain could expect the full fury of all the other tribes.

Several times, to stave off disaster, a chieftain had been compelled to kill his own tribesman who had broken the truce. It was the only appeasement tradition allowed for one who shamed himself at the council. Hutga did not want to consider the possibility of being forced to kill Dorgo under the gloating eyes of Ratha and his ilk.

The Kurgan laughed as Hutga restrained his son. Turning on his heel, Ratha began to climb the hill. He froze after a few steps, dropping into a wary crouch, his weapon held defensively before him. A shape loomed up among the rocks, a form at once massive and twisted. The clatter of hooves on stone trickled down from above and the stink of filthy fur washed down on them from the heights.

An inhuman, braying peel of laughter took up Ratha’s broken mirth. The Vaan chief cursed and straightened as he saw the creature creep into the light.

In form, it was not unlike a man, though the legs were bent upon themselves, impossibly lean beneath the knee and ending in a hoof rather than a proper foot. Mangy brown fur clung to the muscular chest, hanging in knotted clumps from broad shoulders and bulging biceps. The furry arms ended in shortfingered hands upon which a set of wicked-looking bronze fighting claws had been fastened with barbed iron nails.

Like Hutga’s ji and Ratha’s axe, the fighting claws were the ancient heirloom of the creature’s tribe, gifted to its predecessor long ago by Teiyogtei. The head that rose from the brute’s shoulders on a thick stump of neck had nothing in it of the human. The face was pulled into a broad muzzle, fangs jutting from its powerful jaws. Great spiral horns curled up from its scalp, doubling in upon themselves to form thick knobs of bone.

The beastman’s eyes were enormous and pale, like bowls of milk bulging blindly from the pits of its face.

Hutga knew this to be Nhaa, beastlord of the Warherd of Kug. Ratha was wise to show caution before the brute. Of all the chieftains, Nhaa was dangerously unpredictable, savage beyond anything a man could comprehend. The warherd had been driven into the Grey long ago, forced to survive in that grim forest of nightmare and shadow.

The centuries had done nothing to lessen their hatred for the tribes who had banded together to hunt them down. Revenge was one of the purely human drives the beastmen could still claim, and one they never tired of trying to satisfy. It was a testament to the cautious respect even the beastmen afforded their sorcery that the Sul had been able to summon even the beastlord to the gathering.

Nhaa regarded Ratha’s combative pose, snorting loudly as it smelled the surprise that tainted his scent. The gor uttered another braying snicker and began to pick its way back up the hillside, moving with an eerie jerkiness to its gait. Hutga was reminded again that the inhabitants of the Grey were all but blind, relying upon other, less natural senses to navigate their surroundings.

Ratha cursed again and followed after the beastman, his standard bearer behind him. Hutga motioned to Dorgo, warning him again to be wary, but also not to allow himself to be goaded into anything by the other chieftains. Now, above any other time, they could not afford to antagonise the other tribes or allow themselves to be antagonised in turn. The Skulltaker was enemy enough for any of them… for all of them.

The top of the hill was as barren as its slopes, only a few heaps of broken stone and the towering mass of the monolith rising above the crusty red soil. Closer to the monolith, the heavy weight of age was almost overpowering, a sinister air of lost ages and vanished empires. Hutga could almost imagine Teiyogtei’s ghost glaring down at the assembled chieftains, furious at the petty squabbling warlords who had broken his horde between them. Even after so many centuries, the thought of the king’s fury sent a chill shivering through Hutga’s body, and he clutched his heavy mammoth-skin cloak tighter around his shoulders.

The Tong emissaries were among the last to arrive. Nhaa and Ratha had preceded them up the hill. Two of the other chieftains were already there, resting upon jumbles of red-veined granite. They sat far apart, their companions glaring at one another, waiting for an excuse to strike.

The first to catch Hutga’s gaze was Csaba, the zar of the Gahhuks, one of the Kurgan tribes. Csaba was lighter of build than Ratha, though his skin bore the same bronze hue and his hair the same dark cast. Csaba’s armour was simple, strips of leather studded with spikes of iron, his helm open at the face and bereft of adornment save for the horns stabbing outward from its sides.

The Gahhuks were horsemen, priding themselves on their speed and craft. Moreover, armour would hide the chief conceit of the tribe. From crown to foot, the Gahhuks tattooed their bodies, each swirling pattern of lines and circles denoting some great deed the warrior had accomplished.

Csaba, as chieftain, had skin that was nearly black from all the boasts inked into his flesh. Upon their backs, both Csaba and his companion wore bamboo frames across which were stretched flayed skins, each sporting the distinctive Gahhuk tattoos. These were the boldest of their displays, grisly back-banners that incorporated the flayed skin of an enemy defeated in single combat.

No Gahhuk youth was allowed to become a full warrior until he had slain another Gahhuk and stretched his skin upon a bamboo frame.

The other chieftain was Tulka of the Seifan, a tribe of the Hung. Tulka was shorter than the Kurgans around him, but stoutly built and with a panther-like toughness in his wiry limbs. The kahn’s skull was misshapen, lacking the symmetry of a healthy man, with a cluster of eyes peppering his forehead and cheeks. Unlike the dusky hues common to the Seifan, his hair was like spun frost, cascading around his shoulders in glacial streams. The lengthy moustache that fell from his otherwise shaven face was likewise a shocking blue, the tips trapped inside little beads of jade.

The man with Tulka was not unknown to Hutga. Taller than his kahn, with an almost reptilian broadness around his features, Shen was Tulka’s war chief and lieutenant. In the treacherous ways of the Hung, Shen was at once his most trusted underling and his most despised rival. Unlike Csaba and his guard, the Seifan wore elaborate suits of lamellar armour, the scales of copper and iron woven together with thick strips of leather. Round helmets with skirts of copper chain rested on their heads, snakeskin plumes draping down from their peaked crowns.

Beyond the two chiefs, Hutga could see Nhaa, the beastlord perched atop a rock, looking as though it might pounce onto the men around it at any moment. Unlike the others, it appeared that Nhaa had come alone, perhaps as a display of its contempt for its human enemies. For all Hutga knew, the vile creature might have eaten any comrade it had planned to bring with it!

Ratha assumed a place as near to the monolith as possible, defiantly planting his standard in the red earth. Hutga shook his head at the Vaan’s bravado. The crypt of Teiyogtei lie beneath the monolith, and the sounds that rose up from the subterranean tomb could not be explained away by the presence of the priest who tended it. Someday, Ratha’s arrogance would be his downfall. Hutga hoped he was there when something reached up from underground and dragged the Kurgan below.

The last men upon the hill were two Muhaks, their faces hidden beneath masks of tanned flesh, their muscle-ridden bodies a network of scars, naked save for the leather breech-clouts and fur capes they wore.

Hutga was puzzled by the presence of the Muhak, wondering if perhaps one of them was the successor to Lok. Neither bore the fallen zar’s mattock, nor was there the same sense of power that was discernible even in a debased creature like Nhaa. Moreover, the Muhaks were visibly ill-at-ease.

The clatter of rocks and a sharp curse from Ratha pulled Hutga’s attention away from the Muhak emissaries. He saw the Vaan chieftain backing away from the monolith, scowling as something emerged from the pit below. Any hope that the spirits of the tomb were at last reaching out to claim the Vaan were quickly dashed.

It was no spectre of the grave that emerged into the light, but the tall, thin figure of the war-priest who tended the shrine. There had always been a war-priest watching over Teiyogtei’s bones, always an outlander, always entering the domain alone.

The war-priests never left the hill. How they found food or took water was a mystery to the tribes. Even more of a mystery was how a new priest knew to make the pilgrimage to the monolith, to take up the lonely vigil when his predecessor died. Many whispered that Khorne spoke to them in their dreams and guided their steps through these bloody visions.

The war-priest was garbed in a long, tattered cloak of bearskin, its surface painted with gory runes and sigils. A tall, narrow helm of silvery metal framed his thin face. The beard that fell across his neck was a vivid red, the colour of rubies and blood. In his slender hands he carried a long staff of gnarled wood, a slim blade of the same silvery alloy as his helm lashed around its tip.

The outlander was of a people neither Hung nor Kurgan nor Tong; a Norscan from a land far beyond the boundaries of the domain, beyond even the Shadowlands. Alfkaell the Aesling had come far to answer the call of Khorne, lurking within the solitude of Teiyogtei’s tomb through the long years, waiting with a fanatic’s patience to hear the voice of his god again.

The Norscan simply scowled at the men gathered around the hilltop. He removed an object from beneath his cloak, the yellowing brainpan of a skull. Alfkaell stalked towards Ratha, waiting expectantly for the Kurgan to remove the talisman he wore around his neck. A finger-length spike of ruby, a shard from the Blood-Crown of Teiyogtei, the gem rattled as it fell into the macabre bowl.

The war-priest sneered at the zar, and then turned and marched to the other chieftains. By turns, Tulka and Csaba both presented their talismans to the war-priest. When he reached the Muhak emissaries, however, the new zar hesitated before dropping his talisman into the skull, holding it in such a way that it was hidden from view by his hand.

Alfkaell backed away, a murderous grin splitting his face. With one hand, he reached into the skull, lifting from it a finger-sized piece of painted stone. His other hand swept forwards, driving the tip of his spear-staff into the breast of the Muhak who had tried to pass the false talisman. Dark heart’s blood spurted down the length of the staff as Alfkaell pierced the Kurgan, wrenching his blade savagely in the wound.

“Blasphemer,” the Norscan snarled, the dying Muhak hanging from his spear like a piece of spitted meat.

At the cry, the other Muhak turned to flee. Instantly, Nhaa leapt down from its stone, scrambling after the man with bestial glee. The two Seifan added their own part to the savage scene, tripping the Muhak with their long axes. They laughed as Nhaa’s weight smashed down into the prone, screaming man. The beastman’s bronze claws slashed through the Kurgan’s powerful shoulders, crunching into the bones beneath.

With frenzied slashes, the gor dug deep into its victim’s body, relenting only when it pulled something wet and glistening from the quivering wretch. Nhaa’s fangs tore into the stringy mess of tissue and it turned away, leaving the man to bleed out.

“What trick does that scum Lok think to try?” Csaba observed, stabbing a finger at the dead Muhaks. “Why did he not come himself? What was he thinking, trying to pass those fools off on us?”

“Lok thinks nothing, brothers.” Every man upon the hill spun as the voice seemed to materialise from nowhere. Where a moment before had been only broken rock and barren hill, stood two figures. One was the tall, robed shape of Enek Zjarr, kahn of the Sul. Behind him stood a smaller, slighter figure, a woman with the dark hair and sallow features of the Sul. Like Enek Zjarr, her robes were covered in mystical symbols, and a riot of amulets and charms hung around her neck.

“Lok did not come, because Lok is dead,” Enek Zjarr continued. He strode forwards, boldly marching into the centre of the hilltop. Almost contemptuously, he dropped his talisman into the skull held by Alfkaell. The war-priest glared back at him, annoyed by this man, who refused to be intimidated by his strange powers. It was a dangerous thing to tempt the ire of Alfkaell. Unlike the chieftains, he was not bound by any taboo to honour the truce of the gathering.

The sorcerer’s statement brought exclamations of disbelief from the other chieftains, each alarmed by Enek Zjarr’s words. Hutga could guess their thoughts: Enek Zjarr had managed to tip the balance, had found a way to defy prophecy and kill another chieftain. He’d gathered them here to boast of his accomplishment and to threaten the other tribes with his new power.

Hutga’s shock was of a different nature. Already aware of the Muhak zar’s death, his surprise lay in Enek Zjarr’s awareness of the event. It was eerie proof of the efficacy of the sorcerer’s arcane powers.

Ratha was the quickest to compose himself. Hands locked around the haft of his mancatcher, the Vaan snarled at the sorcerer. “What trickery is this, warlock? What lies are these on your crooked tongue?”

Csaba lifted his broad-axe, the moon-like blade glistening in the sunlight. His voice joined that of his fellow zar. “Dare your spells against me, wizard, and you’ll find a Gahhuk tougher to kill than a miserable Muhak!”

Nhaa loped towards the sorcerer, its fighting claws bared, its fangs exposed in a feral grin. Tulka leaned back, his eyes hooded as he watched the situation unfold, the immense dadao still sheathed at his side. The treacherous Hung was waiting to see which way the wind would blow before committing himself. Similarly, Alfkaell kept his distance, brutal amusement on his face, clearly enjoying the spectacle of watching the chieftains slaughter one another.

“It is no trick!” Hutga roared. The chieftains glanced his way, trying to keep one eye on the Sul emissaries. While he had their attention, Hutga hurried to speak. “My son saw Lok die,” he said, gesturing to Dorgo. “It was not Enek Zjarr who killed him, but an outlander.” The khagan’s voice dropped into an awed hiss. “It was the Skulltaker.”

Silence once again hovered over the hill for a moment, as the chieftains worked their minds around Hutga’s statement. Again, it was Ratha who was first to speak.

“The Skulltaker is a myth,” the zar sneered, “a bogey man to frighten children.” He gestured with his mancatcher at Enek Zjarr. “If Lok is dead, it was this dog’s black sorcery that killed him.”

Dorgo drew his sword, stepping around his father to brandish the weapon at Ratha. “Call me a liar again, Kurgan, and the Muhak won’t be the only tribe without a leader!”

“They aren’t,” Enek Zjarr said. “The Veh-Kung no longer have a kahn.”

“Bleda?” Tulka asked, suspicion in his tones. “You are telling us Bleda is dead?”

“Even for a wizard, bearding that fat maggot in his damnable desert would be a fine trick!” Ratha scoffed. A dangerous thought came to him. “Unless he was killed away from the desert, lured by the words of the Sul!”

Rage flickered across Enek Zjarr’s face. The sorcerer’s hand twisted into a claw, gripping something unseen. Light flickered around the Sul’s fingers and a blackened shaft of metal with a bronze, bladed head suddenly manifested in the sorcerer’s grip.

He leaned on the naginta, the dreaded spear-axe that was Teiyogtei’s gift to the Sul. “Do not bait me, Kurgan, or the Skulltaker will not need to seek your head!”

The sorcerer’s threat did not faze Ratha, but the menacing words did give Csaba and Tulka pause. Nhaa backed away from the display of sorcery, the fur on its back bristling as it retreated. Hutga shook his head, disgusted. The tribes had warred for so long against one another, so long had they plotted and schemed that even faced by a common foe, they couldn’t set aside their animosity.

Still, for the good of his people, for the good of all their people, he had to try.

Hutga stepped forwards, putting himself between the sorcerer and the zar. He glared at Ratha, and then at Enek Zjarr. “You have seen the doom that threatens all of us,” Hutga scolded the sorcerer. “By your words, I gather he has taken the head of Bleda to hang beside that of Lok.” Enek Zjarr nodded, confirming Hutga’s supposition. “Then there can be no doubt that the Skulltaker means to kill us all. If we are to stop him, we must work together, not spend ourselves on petty squabbles!”

“Ally with the Sul?” Ratha spat. “I’d sooner trust Nhaa with my children and a cooking pot!” The oath brought a snide laugh from Tulka and a warning growl from the beastlord.

“If the Skulltaker has come back, he won’t stop with the Veh-Kung and Muhak!” Csaba shouted, an element of fear in his voice. “Hutga is right, he’ll be after all our heads!”

Tulka laughed at the Gahhuk. “Because the Tong has been deceived by the sorcerer doesn’t mean I have to play the fool! If I’d known you were such an idiot, Csaba, I would have invaded your lands long ago!”

Csaba bristled at the Seifan’s taunt, the guard behind him stalking towards Tulka and Shen. The two Hung simply grinned back, sharing a sly look, fingers tightening around their swords.

Harsh laughter rolled across the hilltop. The furious chieftains turned to scowl at Alfkaell. The Norscan priest stood in the shadow of the monolith, a cruel smile behind his beard. Without ceremony, he dumped the ruby talismans onto the ground.

“Such brotherhood and trust among the blood of Teiyogtei,” the war-priest hissed. “Such unity of purpose! Such lofty vision! Even when the wolf prowls inside the tent, still you argue over who gets the warmest blanket: the heirs of Teiyogtei, the men chosen by the great king to inherit his domain and guard it against the gods!”

Alfkaell shook his head. “Better he had bent his knee to the Blood God and begged his mercy than leave his legacy in the hands of such fools! Even united, do you think you could stand against the Skulltaker? He will kill you all and set your heads before the Skull Throne! Khorne will consume the land Teiyogtei promised to him, the domain he tried to cheat from a god!”

“Scatter or stand,” Alfkaell laughed, turning and stalking back into the crypt beneath the monolith. “It will not matter. You are all going to die.”

The chieftains were silent, watching until the war-priest had vanished from sight. The Norscan’s malevolent laughter continued to drift back to them. Ratha scowled, spitting at the war-priest’s footprints.

“Outland scum! We’ll see who will run and hide!” he raged. “No man, no daemon, has ever been able to face the Vaan on the field of battle! This Skulltaker will be ground beneath our axes and it will be his head, not mine that will sit before the Skull Throne!”

Ratha’s oath brought similar boasts from the other chieftains, each declaring their defiance of the Skulltaker, but any illusion of consensus was quickly shattered when they started to discuss plans for joining their forces. The council degenerated quickly into threats and curses, old suspicions and old hates rising again to the fore.

Hutga turned away, motioning for Dorgo to follow him. There was nothing more to discuss. Alliance between the tribes was impossible, the leaders too petty to set aside their differences for the common good. As he made his way back down the hillside, Hutga remembered Alfkaell’s daemonic mirth, the war-priest’s words about the land passing into the Blood God’s realm. The ancient legends claimed that the domain Teiyogtei conquered had been vibrant and fertile. The ruins of that prosperity littered the landscape. After the Skulltaker killed him, the land had been scourged, hellish places like the Desert of Mirrors and the Grey springing into existence as the fell power of the Wastes washed over the domain.

If the Skulltaker were to kill the men who were Teiyogtei’s heirs, those who bore the blood of the khagan within them, what greater perversion might be visited upon the land? Could the domain truly be consumed by the Blood God?