by William King
From the back of his dark horse Kurt von Diehl stared into the
Chaos Wastes. A strange red haze hung over rainbow-coloured ground
and the outline of the land seemed to shift like sand-dunes into a
breeze.
He turned to look down at Oleg Zaharoff, the last survivor of his
original gang. The rat-like little man had followed him all the way
from the Empire through the steppes of Kislev to these poisoned lands
at the edge of the world. Now their path led clearly out into the
desert.
Its been a long road, said Zaharoff. But
were here.
Kurt raised his hand and shielded his eyes with one black-gauntleted
hand. He drank into the scene. Visions of this place had haunted his
dreams ever since he had slain the Chaos Warrior and claimed his
baroque black armour and his runesword. He rubbed the inlaid skull on
his chest-plate thoughtfully.
Aye. Here hell has touched the earth and men may aspire to
godhood. Here we can become masters of our own destiny. I have
dreamed about making my way to the uttermost North, to the black
Gate. I will stand before great Khorne and he will grant me power. We
will return and claim my inheritance from the crothers who ousted
me.
He spoke as a man speaks when he has a vision in which he does not
fully believe, as much to convince himself as to convince any
listener. He had his doubts but he pushed them aside. Had not the
armour already granted him a measure of the strength of Chaos?
He made himself savour thoughts of his coming revenge. Soon he would
reclaim his ancestral lands from his treacherous kinsmen who had
banished him to the life of an outlaw.
Guided by the call that had lured him across a hundred leagues, Kurt
nudged his steed on down the path. With a last look back toward the
land of men, Oleg Zaharoff followed him.
Night came, a darkening of the haze that surrounded them, a
flickering of fearful stars in the sky. Far, far to the north a dark
aurora danced, staining the sky a deeper, emptier black. They made
camp for the night within a ruined building, surrounded by grasping,
fungus-covered trees.
This must have been a farm once, before the last incursion of
Chaos, said Zaharoff. Kurt slumped down against a blackened
wall and gazed over at himself interestedly. Zaharoff was a Kislevite
and knew many tales about the Wastes that bordered his native land,
none of them reassuring.
Two hundred years ago, when the sky last darkened and the
hordes of Chaos came, they say that most of Northern Kislev was
overrun. Magnus the Pious came to my peoples aid and the host
was driven back. But Chaos did not give up all the ground it had
conquered. This must have been part of the overrun land.
He picked up something, a small doll that had lain where it had been
thrown aside. Some freak of this strange land must have preserved it,
Kurt decided. Sadly he found himself wondering what had become of its
owner. Shocked by his own weakness, he tried to push the thought
aside.
Soon the horde will march again, he said. We will
drown the world in blood.
Kurt was startled. He had said the words but they were not his own.
They seemed to have emerged from some hidden recess of his mind. He
felt something lurking back there, had done since the day he put on
the armour. He wondered if he was going mad.
Zaharoff gave him a strange look. How can you be so sure, Kurt?
We dont really know that much about this place. Only what you
have dreamed and that your armour came from here. How can you
be so sure that we will find what we seek and not death?
The words echoed too closely Kurts own darker thoughts. I
know I am right. Do you doubt me?
Zaharoff threw the doll to one side. Of course not. If you are
wrong, we have lost everything.
Go to sleep, Oleg. Tomorrow you will need your strength. Doubt
will only sap it.
Kurt laid his sword and axe near at hand and closed his eyes. Almost
all at once he fell into blood stained dreams. It seemed that he
climbed toward some great reward over a mound of ripped and squirming
bodies. No matter how fast he climbed he could not reach the top of
the pile. A long way above him something huge, with baleful eyes,
watched his struggles with amusement.
The sound of scuttling awoke Kurt. He snapped open his eyes and
seized up his weapons. Looking across at Oleg he saw his companion
was gazing around in fear.
They come, he said. Zaharoff nodded. Von Diehl arose and
made towards the entrance. Before he reached it, he saw his way was
barred by small bearded figures clad in dark-painted armour and
clutching axes and hammers. Their skins were green or white as the
bellies of fish from some underground pool. They were the height of
children but as broad as a strong man. Kurt knew they were Chaos
Dwarfs kin to the true dwarfkind, but seduced to the path of
Chaos.
Khorne has provided us with a sacrifice, said the leader
in a voice deep as a mine. Kurt beheaded him with one swift stroke,
then he leapt among them, striking left and right with sword and
axe.
Blood for the Blood God! he cried, bellowing out the
war-cry which echoed through his dreams. Skulls for the skull
throne!
He ploughed into the dwarfs like a ship through waves. Behind him he
left a trail of red havoc. Small figures fell clutching at the stumps
of ams, trying to hold in place jaws that had been sheared from their
faces.
Kurt felt unholy joy surge through him, searing through his veins
like sweetest poison. It seeped into him from his armour. With every
death he felt a little stronger, a little happier. Mad mirth bubbled
through him, insane laughter frothed from his lips. He had felt pale
a foretaste of this madness before in previous battles but here in
the Chaos Waste, under the eerie moons, it was like nectar. He was
drunk on battle.
Kurt, look out! he heard Oleg cry. He twisted and took
the stroke of a hammer on his armoured forearm. His sword fell from
numb hands. He saw what Zaharoff had tried to warn him off. Two
masked and goggled dwarfs where manhandling a long tube into
position, bringing it to bear on him. He punched the hammer wielder
in the face, feeling a nose break under the spiked knuckles of his
gauntlet, then swung his axe back and threw it. It went spinning
through the air and buried itself in the head of the leading
dwarf.
The dwarf fell backward, the tube lurched skyward, and a gout of
flame erupted from its tip. A white-hot sheet of flame blazed past
Kurts face. Something impacted on the structure behind him. The
building exploded, the horses whinnied with terror.
He turned to look at the ruins of the old farm. Everyone else did the
same for one brief moment. Kurt stooped and picked up his sword. The
remaining dwarfs looked at him.
Chosen of Khorne, said the nearest one. There has
been a mistake. We did not realize you were one of the Blood
Gods champions. Lead us and we will follow you.
He bowed his head to the ground. Kurt was tempted to hack it off, to
continue the bloodletting, but he restrained himself. Such followers
might be usefull.
Very well, Kurt said. But any trachery and you all
die.
The dwarfs nodded solemnly. Kurt began to laugh till red tears ran
down his face. His laughter died in his throat. He pulled off his
helmet to check for cuts and he saw Zaharoff start, a look of pure
terror crossing his face.
What is it? he asked. What do you see?
Your face, Kurt. Its beginning to change.
Kurt and his warband pushed on further into the wastes, seeking
foes to slay and booty to plunder. Each day as they marched
Kurts face became more twisted, more like that of a beast. At
first there was discomfort, then pain then agony, but he endured it
stoically. The Black Dwarfs seemed pleased, taking it as a sign that
their master was blessed by the Blood God. Kurt noticed that Oleg
could no longer look him in the face.
What is wrong? asked Kurt. They were standing atop a
butte of wind-sculpted ebony, looking down at a landscape where
cristalline flowers bloomed. In the distance, far to the north, Kurt
could see dark clouds gathering.
Nothing Kurt. I am uneasy. We have encountered no-one for days
and a storm is coming from the north. By the look of those clouds it
will be no natural tempest.
Come, Oleg, you can be honest with me. We have known eact other
long enough. That is not what worries you?
Zaharoff looked at him sidelong. Behind them the dwarfs were stowing
their gear, pitching small black tents with frames made from carved
bones. Zaharoff licked his lips.
I am troubled. I do not like this place. It is so vast and
strange and empty. It could swallow a man and no one would notice he
was gone.
Kurt laughed. Having second thoughts? Do you wish to turn back?
If you want to return I will not
stop you. Go! If you wish to.
Zaharoff looked back the way they had come. Kurt could tell what he
was thinking. He was measuring the length of the way against his
chances of survival on his own. To the south something large and
black flapped across the red-tinted sky. Zaharoff shook his head, his
shoulders slumped.
I am committed. For good or for ill, I will follow you.
His voice was soft and resigned.
Yorri, the dwarf chief, approached. Bad storm coming, boss. Best be
prepared.
Im going to stay and watch, said Kurt. The dwarf
shrugged and turned to walk away.
Overhead black clouds boiled. The wind roared past, tugging at the
fur of his face. Pink lightning lashed down from the sky. He watched
the horses buck and leap in fear. They could not break free from the
iron pins to which the dwarfs had tethered them. He could see foam on
their lips.
Thunder rumbled like the laughter of dark gods. Another bolt of
lightning split the sky. The crystal flowers pulsed and flared with
many-coloured lights as the bolts landed in the grove. For a moment
the after-image of the flash blinded him. When he looked back the
grove was transformed. Pale witch-fire surrounded the blossoms so
that there seemed to be two sets of flowers, of solid crystal and
shimmering light. It was a scene of weird, alien beauty.
Among the mesas of the tortured land dark clouds prowled forward like
giant monsters. He watched as the dust-clouds swept over the crystal
flowers, obscuring their light. Flecks of dust drifted up over the
edge of the outcrop on which he stood.
He watched rainbows of dust particles dance and spiral in the air
before him. They seemed to trap the energy of the lightning and
glittered like fairy lights. Where the dust touched him his face
tingled and his armour grew warm to the touch.
Once more the lightning flashed. Exultation filled him. He stood
untouched and unafraid in the elemental landscape. It seemed that
part of him had come home at last. He raised his sword to the sky.
Its runes glowed red as blood. He laughed aloud and his voice was
merged with the thunder.
Damn dust gets everywhere, said Oleg Zaharoff.
Its in my hair, my clothes. I think I even swallowed
some.
The dust is powdered warpstone, said Yorri. Ash
from the gatefires that still burn at the northernmost pole, where
the fire of hell spill over into the world. Soon changes will
start.
You mean around here? asked Oleg.
The land. Our bodies. What does it matter? The dwarf
cackled.
Oleg smiled crazily. I do feel different.
Chaos will make us strong, said Kurt, trying to reassure
himself.
A dwarf scuttled closer. He came right up to Kurt. Master, we
have sighted prey. Coming into the grove of flowers is a warband. By
the colour of their armour and the lewdness of their banner I would
say they are followers of thrice-accursed Slaanesh.
At the mention of the name Kurt felt inchoate fury fill him. Visions
of slaughter rose unbidden before his eyes. Sweet hate filled him.
Ancient enmity lay between Khorne and Slaanesh.
Prepare your weapons! We will attack them as they leave the
grove. The order had left his lips before he even had tile to
think.
The dwarf grinned evilly and nodded. Kurt wondered, was it just his
imagination, or were the slave-dwarfs teeth growing
sharper?
They waited at the edge of the grove where the path ran between two
great mesas. The dwarfs grumbled happily in their own tongue.
Zaharoff nervously sharpened his weapon till Kurt told him to stop.
They crouched behind the shelter of some boulders. Nearby Yorri and
his crewman had set up their
firetube ready to blast the first target that came in sight.
The enemy came slowly into view. They were led by a woman clad in
lime-green plate mail. Her yellow and orange hair streamed behind her
in the breeze, and she smiled to herself as if in the throes of some
secret rapture. Her mount was bipedal, bird-like, with a long snout
and deep human-seeming eyes. The woman carried a huge war banner.
Spiked to its top was a childs head above the carven body of a
beckoning woman.
A long chain of slender metal links bound a gross, bull-headed giant
to the womans saddle. The minotaur was half-again as tall as
Kurt and muscled like a dwarven blacksmith. It looked at the woman
with adoring, worshipful eyes.
Behind it marched half a dozen beastmen. Each one had one exposed
female breast, although the rest of their naked bodies were obviously
male. At the rear were two twisted elved, clad in thonged black
leather and carrying crossbows. When the dwarfs saw them they
gibbered excitedly to each other.
Kurt gestured for the dwarfs to be silent. The Slaaneshi moved even
closer, seemingly oblivious to their peril.
Aazella Silkkenthighs, muttered Yorri. Kurt looked at
him. She is favoured by the Lord of Pleasure. Beware her
whip.
Kurt nodded and drew his fingers across his throat. The dwarf once
more fell silent. Kurt gave Aazella his attention. He noticed that
behind her the storm had affected the crystal flowers. They had grown
to be higher than a man, and seemed thinner and more translucent,
like blooms of glazed sugar. Bloated black insects moved over them,
gnawing the leaves.
The enemy were no more than a dozen yards from them when the eyes of
the impaled head above the banner opened. It licked its lips and
spoke in a horrid, lascivious voice: Beware, mistress. Foes
wait in ambush.
Kurt lept to his feet. Blood for the Blood God! he
shouted, gesturing his men forward with a motion of his axe.
With a roar, the dwarvish tube spat forth its projectile. The missile
buried itself in the chest of the man-bull, knocking it from its
feet. It fell to the ground, its entrails pouring from its ruined
abdomen.
His men raced forward to attack as Kurt charged the woman on her
steed. The animal licked out at him with a flickering tongue, long as
a rope, glistening stickily. It reminded him of the tongue of a toad.
He chopped at it with his runesword, cutting it in two. The beast
retracted its tongue, whimpering in pain.
He closed and struck it with his axe. The blade failed to bite on the
creatures resilient hide. Above him the childs head kept
up a babbling stream of obscenities.
Aazella lifted the standard and smashed it into his chest. The blow
landed with surprising force and knocked him from his feet. Above him
the beast of Slaanesh skittered and danced. Despite the black spots
floating before his eyes he managed to roll clear of its talons.
He lashed out with his blade, hamstringing the creature. It fell to
one side as he pulled himself to his feet. The woman let go the
standard and rolled for her saddle. With amazing agility she
performed a handspring and came to land in a fighting stance, pulling
a long metallic whip from her belt.
She licked her red lips, revealing fanged incisors. Then she smiled
at him. You seek a pleasurable death, warrior. I shall see you
writhe in ecstasy before you die.
Die, spawn of Slaanesg! Kurt bellowed, rushing at her.
Die in the name of Khorne!
As he invoked his dread lords name he once more felt the
strength of murderous bloodlust flow through him. He aimed a stroke
which would have split her in two. She avoided it like a gazelle
leaping from a lions spring, then stuck out a foot, tripping
him.
Clumsy man, she taunted. Youll have to do
better.
He growled like a wild animal and leapt to his feet. This time he
advanced towards her more cautiously, feinting gently with his sword,
preparing to swing his axe. Somewhere he could hear the voice of a
child, taunting him.
He struck with the axe and once more she evaded it. This time she
struck at him with her whip. It looped around his throat, blocking
his breath. As it completed its last coil, he found himself glaring
into serpentine eyes. The head of a snake tipped the lash. It hissed
and bit into his cheek.
Knowing he was poisoned drove him to redoubled effort. Determined to
at least sacrifice her in the name of his god, he dropped his weapons
and with both hands grabbed the whips metallic line. He jerked
her toward him.
So sudden was his move that she did not let go the weapon but was
drawn towards him. He let go the whip and grabbed her throat with his
mailed hands. He began to tighten his grip.
They fell together like lovers. From the bite in his cheek waves of
pure pleasure pulsed, mingling with his berserk hatred. He shut his
eyes and squeezed even harder as the pleasure mounted. It burst
inside him as intense as pain and then he only knew darkness and
cold.
What happened? Kurt heard a deep, gruff voice ask. The
words were his own.
He raised thick fingers to his face to feel the fur of his forehead.
His arms felt like treetrunks, thick and bloated. His chest felt
broader. His voice seemed to rumble from a chasm deep within him.
From off in the distance he could hear an agonized scream which ended
in mad, gibbering laughter and a moan of pleasure.
I thought you were dead, Kurt. Said Oleg. His face
drifted into view. It looked blotched and leprous. Two small growths
had appeared on his forehead and his shoulder seemed to have a hump
on it.
Youre not looking too well, Oleg, growled Kurt.
You have not been well. After you killed the woman, you fell
into a feverish swoon. You lay and gibbered for two long
days.
What happened to her?
An unnatural thing. You both fell. Your hands were about her
throat. I approached to give her the coup-de-grace but her armour
rose from the ground and walked off into the wasteland. Her eyes were
closed. I could have sworn she was dead.
We have seen the last of her, boomed Kurt. What
became of her men?
Yorri and the lads ate the beastmen. You can hear the scream of
the elves.
The little man shuddered. Truly, Kurt, we are in
hell.
Greetings, brother, whither goest thou? The speaker
was garbed in rune-encrusted plate. A full helmet obscured his face
except for reddish glowing eyes. He was tall and thin,
predatory-looking as a mantis. Behind him was ranged a force of mangy
beastmen. They loomed menacingly against a landscape of redly glowing
craters.
Kurt studied the other warrior carily, suspecting treachery. I
am bound for the deep lands near the Gates.
Truly thou art the chosen of Khorne, said the other
mockingly. A thousand years ago I spoke similarly. I am sure
the Blood God will reward thee suitably.
Do not mock me, little man. Said Kurt dangerously.
I do not mock thee, I envy thy determination. I had not the
will to progress further in the service of our dark lord. I fear I
was over-cautious. Now I wander these lands forlornly. Tis a
drab existence.
Zaharoff spoke. You do not seriously expect us to believe this
tale? A thousand years!
The slender warrior laughed. Ten years, a century, a
millennium, what does it matter? Time flows strangely here at the
worlds edge. All who dwell within the Wastes learn that
eventually.
Who are you? asked Kurt.
I am Prince Deiter the Unchanging.
Kurt von Diehl.
May I join thy quest, Sir Kurt? It may prove mildly
amusing.
Im not sure I believe in you, prince. A foppish, cowardly
servant of Khorne.
Once more the black prince laughed sweetly. You will find, Sir
Kurt, that Chaos holds all possibilites. Here nothing is
impossible.
Zaharoff moved closer to Kurt. I do not trust this one. Perhaps
it would be best to kill him.
Kurt looked down at him. Later. For now he is useful.
The beastmen fell into ranks beside the dwarfs. Dieter rode beside
Kurt. Zaharoff limped along somewhat apart, keeping a cautious eye on
their new companions.
They travelled across what once had been a battlefield. Here lay
the bones of thousands of combatants. Rib-cages crunched under the
hooves of Kurts strangely mutating horse. The dwarfs kicked a
goat-horned skull between them, laughing and making coarse jokes.
Over the whole field arced an enormous skeleton. A spine as high as a
hill was supported by ribs greater than Imperial oaks. Riding beneath
it was like passing below the roof of an enormous hall. After a while
even the dwarfs fell silent as the oppressiveness of the place
grew.
The Field of Grax, remarked Prince Dieter
conversationally. What a pretty fray that was. The massed
hordes of Khorne faced the armies of Tzeentch, the Great Mutator.
Sadly we fought near the lair of the Dragon Grax. The clash of our
arms disturbed his beauty sleep. He was a trifle annoyed when he was
roused. I think our Lords picked this place deliberately. It was
their little joke.
I do not like the way you speal of the Dark Powers,
prince, said Kurt. It smacks of blasphemy.
The prince tittered. Blasphemy gainst the Lords of Chaos,
the arch-blasphemers themselves. Thou art a wit, Sir Kurt.
I do not jest, Prince.
The prince fell silent and when he spoke again his tone was bleak and
absolutely serious. Then thou art alone in that here. Even our
dark masters enjoy a joke. All thou hast seen here, all the worlds
even, exist only for their amusement. The Four Powers seek to while
away eternity until even they sink back into the Void Absolute. All
we are is their playthings.
Kurt stared at him, fighting down the urge to draw his sword and slay
the strange Chaos warrior. Walking across the field of bones,
underneath the spine of the gigantic dragon, he felt dwarfed into
insignificance and very alone.
The screams of the dying echoed in his ears. By the light of two
bloated moons he fought and slew. He raised his sword and hacked
through the dogmans shield. His blow sounded like a blacksmith
hitting an anvil. It ended with a pulpy squelch.
They fought against other followers of Khorne, honing their skills,
winnowing out the weak.
He looked up and he saw the radiant dark aurora in the sky. He
shrieked his war-cry and drove on towards the remainder of his foes.
Nearby he saw Zaharoff gnawing at the throat of one of the dead.
Blood stained the downy fur of his face, his eyes were pink and his
long hairless tail twitched.
Guiding his horned steed with his knees, Kurt charged towards the
enemy banner, hewing down anyone who stood in his way. A great beast,
long and hideously canine, snapped at his leg. He wheeled the horse
round and brought its hooves thudding down on the creatures
head. He leaned forward in the saddle and hacked at the thing with
his rune-blade. With a whimper it died.
In the distance he saw Prince Dieter fighting his way though a group
of dog-headed soldiers, a long silver blade gleaming in his hands. He
showed a delicate skill that seemed out of place in a wearer of the
dread black armour of Khorne.
A shock ran through him and he looked down to see another Chaos
warrior, a tall helmetless man with the long hair and beard of a
Norseman. He frothed at the mouth and gibbered berserkly. His huge
hawk-beaked axe had opened a cut in Kurts leg.
Blood for the Blood God, roared the Norseman.
Only the strong survive, bellowed Kurt, bringing his own
axe down.
The berserker ignored the fact that Kurt had caved in the side of his
face and continued to chop away. Kurt smiled in appreciation at the
mans bloodlust before cleaving his head clean off. Even after
this the Norseman continued to hack away mechanically, lashing around
blindly, chopping into the ranks of his own men.
Red rage mingled with pain as Kurt charged the enemys standard.
At that moment he felt a vast presence loom over him, leering
approvingly as he butchered his opponents.
He looked up and briefly he thought he saw a gigantic horn-helmed
figure silhouetted against the sky. The figure radiated bloodlust and
insane approval like a daemonic sun. The feeling of approval
increased with every foe Kurt slew.
Invigorated and exalted, he rode down the last few who barred his
way, threw his axe at the bearer and snatched up the enemy standard.
He broke it one handed, like a twig. The enemy broke and fled and he
rode them down.
The field is ours, he cried.
Afterwards when the killing-lust had gone, he surveyed the field. The
tremendous feeling of divine approval had gone and he felt empty. The
battlefield seemed meaningless, the triumph hollow. Bodies were
strewn everywhere in random patterns, like incomprehensible runes
written by an idiotic god. The whole scene was like a painting,
two-dimensional and cold. He felt disconnected from it.
He gazed out with empty eyes and for the first time in months, found
himself thinking of home. To his horror, try as he might, he could
not recall what it looked like. The names of the family who had
dispossessed him would not come. It was as if he dimly remembered
another lige. He had to fight back the suspicion that he had died and
been reborn in a hell of unending warfare.
Staring at the devolved figure of Zaharoff, ripping hauches of flesh
from the dead, revulsion overcame him. He was sick. He heard the
trotting of hooves coming ever closer.
Prince Dieter looked at him and surveyed the carnage he had
wrought.
Truly, Kurt, thou art the chosen of Khorne.
His voice held a mixture of mockery, awe and pity.
Will we never get to the Gates? asked Kurt, looking
back at the warband balefully.
Yorry scratched his head with the claw on his third arm. Zaharoff
looked at him and twitched his tail. Kurt noted the red ring that
surrounded his mouth.
We may never reach them, said Prince Dieter. Some
say the Gates stretch off into infinity and that a man could ride
from now till Khornes final horn-blast and not reach
them.
You are a little late in telling us this, prince.
It may not be the case. There are many tales about the Chaos
Wastes, often contradictory. Sometimes both are true.
You speak in riddles.
Dieter shrugged. What one traveller meets, another may not.
Distances can stretch and shrink. The stuff of reality itself becomes
mutable around the Gates as the raw power of Chaos warps
it.
Kurt stared off across the lake of blood. On it he could see ships of
bone. Perhaps their sails were flayed flesh, he mused.
I have heard it said that around the Gates one enters the
dreams of the Old Dark Gopds, that is their thoughts that shape the
land. And what the traveller meets depends on which Power is in the
ascendant.
What are the Gates? asked Zaharoff. Kurt looked at him in
surprise. It had been a long time since the little man had shown any
interest in their quest. He seemed to have withdrawn into
himself.
They are where the Lords of Chaos enter our world, a doorway
from their realm to ours, said Kurt.
Dieter coughed delicately. That may be true but that is not the
whole story.
Of course thou knowest the whole story, said Kurt
sardonically.
Some say that one of the mighty sorcerors of old tried to bring
daemons here but he got more than he bargained for. Some say the
Gates were a mechanism of the Elder Race known as the Slann, used for
their ungodly purposes. The mechanism ran wild and a hole was created
through which Chaos came into the world.
It was all the fault of elves, said Yorri.
It doesnt matter, said Kurt. We will not find
our goal by standing there talking.
Why dost thou wish to reach them? asked Dieter.
Its why I came here, said Kurt. The trek was the
only purpose he could latch on that made any sort of sense in this
terrible realm.
He could see how easy it would be to become like the dommed prince
and simply drift from placer to place in search of battle. In the
realm of the damned, purpose was more precious than jewels.
They fought battles and with every battle Kurts power grew,
and as his power grew so did the number of his followers. To Kurt
every day merged into a dream of bloodlust. His life became an
endless battle. His ladder was made of the bones of fallen
enemies.
At Caer Deral, among the burial mounds of long-dead kings, he fought
against the followers of the renegade god Malal. Beneath the eyes of
a huge stone head he slew the enemy leader, a man whose face was
white as milk and whose eyes were red as blood. He tore the
albinos heart out with his bare hands and raised it still
pulsing as an offering to the Blood God. The mark of Khornes
pleasure were the twisted goat horns that sprouted from his head. A
company of red-furred beastmen marched from the waste to join
him.
By the bank of a river of filth he routed the fly-headed followers of
Nurgle and would have slain their leader, a gaunt woman on whose skin
crawled leeches, had not something vast and soft and deadly risen
from the mire and driven him and his men off. Khorne was displeased
and Kurts face changed once more, features running till his
nose was two slits over a leech mouth.
After the siege of the Keep of Malamon, which warriors of Khorne had
struggled to take for a century, he rode on his mighty steed through
the courtyard to look on the body of the once-mighty sorceror. Two
Chaos marauders had raised the corpse on the end of a pike while the
host revelled through the wreckage of the castle. In a pool of the
wizards blood, by the light of blazing torches, he caught sight
of himself. He saw a huge and monstrous creature with an apelike face
and tired, lost-seeming eyes.
Along with his mind he seemed to be losing even the form of a man, as
the corrosive influence of his surroundings worked to transform
him.
After that night, he tried to re-dedicate himself to Khorne, to lose
himself in the wine of battle and drown out his thoughts of his
fading humanity in gore.
The host left the siege of Malamon and swept across the wastes like
fire through dry scrubland. Everything it met died, whether allied
with Nurgle, Tzeentch, Slaanesh or Khorne. Within the councils of its
leaders Kurt rose by virtue of his desperate ferocity.
Even among these, most violent of the violent, he stood apart by
virtue of his ruthlessness and insane courage. Khorne showered him
with rewards and with each gift his humanity seemed to fade, his sick
hopelessness to withdraw, to form a small solid kernel buried deep in
his mind.
Memories of his homeland, friend and family had all but gone, like
old paintings whose pigment has faded to the point of invisibility.
He became only dimly aware of the beings about him, seeing them only
as victims or slaves. When after one desperate struggle
Zaharoffs chittering voice called him master he
never gave it a second thought but took his former friends
servitude as his natural due.
Under a blood-red sky he fought with bat-winged daemons till his axe
chipped and broke. From the body of a dead knight of Khorne he
snatched up a strange and potent weapon, a crossbow which fired bolts
of light and whose beam caused the bat-thing to shrivel and curl out
of existence like leaves in flame.
In a blizzard of ash he struggled against creatures even further down
the path of Chaos than himself, amoebic shapes from which protruded
stalked eyes and questing orifices. After that his armour fused to
his flesh like a second skin. Zaharoff and the dwarfs came even more
to resemble the creatures he had defeated.
The hosts casualities mounted and Kurt continued his
progression towards its leadership. And everywhere he went Prince
Dieter the Unchanging was close behind him, his permanent shadow,
whispering advice and encouragement and words of ancient evil
wisdom.
Everyday Kurt became more aware of the presence of the Blood God in
his heart. Every death seemed to bring him closer to his dark deity,
every foe vanquished seemed to extinguish some small spark of his
humanity and mould him further towards Khornes ideal.
All his dark passions seemed to fuse and come to the fore. He became
unthinking and unrestrained, acting on whim rather than conscious
thought.
He lived in a state of permanent barely-restrained frenzy. The
slightest infraction of his command, the smallest thing which annoyed
him resulted in someones death. A warrior only had to glance at
him the wrong way to feel the sting of Kurts weapons.
And yet during all this time a small part of his spirit stood apart
and watched what was happening to him with growing horror. Sometimes
he would be struck with doubts and feelings of terrible loneliness
which all his triumphs could not assuage. Part of him was nauseated
by the unending violence that was his life and felt sick guilt at the
joy he took in slaughter. It was as if his mind had become host to
some malevolent alien creature which he did not understand.
It seemed to him in his more lucid moments, away from the drug of
combat, that he had become a divided man, that his soul had become a
field over which an unequal battle was being fought between his lust
for power and blood and what remained of his humanity. There were
times when he found himself contemplating falling on his sword and
ending his torment, but such was not the way of Khornes
champions.
Instead he was always first into every skirmish, accepted every
challenge to personal combat and chose the mightiest opponents.
Invariably he was successful and the gifts of changed body and warped
sould that Khorne granted reinforced the dark side of his nature.
The end came swiftly. The host was progressing across a smooth
plain towards mountains of glass. Its banners fluttered in a dry,
throat-tightening breeze, it advanced in full panoply. Under a
standard bearing the skull rune of the Blood God, the armys
commander rode and bickered.
I say we ride north, said Kurt, still obeying the command
of some half-forgotten impulse. There we will find power and
foes worthy of our blades.
I say we head south and harry the Slaaneshi, replied
Hargul Grimaxe, the armys general.
I am with Kurt, said Dieter. The rest of the warriors
fell silent. They all the coming conflict. Among the followers of
Khorne there could only be one unquestioned leader and there was only
one way to settle the issue.
South, said Kilgor the Ogre, glaring menacingly at Kurt.
Tazelle and Avarone, the other great champions, kept silent. Their
followers watched, quite as huge black statues.
The part of Kurts mind which still functionned tried to work
out how many of the commanders would follow him and what proportion
of the army would back him up. Not enough, he decided. Well, so be
it.
North, bellowed Kurt, swinging up his alien weapon and
blasting Hargul. The generals head melted and bubbled away.
Treachery! yelled Tazelle. All the warriors drew their
weapons. Battle began under the banner of the Blood God. It was a
spark to dry kindling. Behind him Kurt heard the roar of the
armys troops. Soon the screams of dying beastmen and mutating
man-things reached his ears as the army fell onto itself in an orgy
of violence.
Old hatred, made the more intense by being restrained by the
discipline of the army, were suddenly unfetterred Kurt smiled. Khorne
would devour many souls this day.
He brought his weapon to bear on the rest of the commanders and
pulled the trigger. Two more died under its withering beam before it
was smashed from his hands by an axe.
Blood for the Blood God! roared Kurt, drawing his sword
and hewing around two-handed. He hacked his way to the center of hthe
group of Chaos Warriors and seized up the standard. He knew that by
instinct the force would rally around its bearer.
Now, as never before, he felt the presence of Khorne. As he touched
the banner the laughter of the Blood God seemed to ring in his ears,
the shadow of his passing
darkened the sky. He was giving his master mighty offerings. Not the
weak twisted souls of stunted slaves or mewling men but the spirits
of warriors, mighty champions who had much blood on their hands. He
could tell that Khorne was pleased.
The sweep of his sword cut down any who came within its arc. He was
tireless. Energy seemed to flood into him through the standard,
amplifying his strength a hundredfold. He became an engine of
destruction driven by daemonic rage. Bodies piled up around him as he
destroyed all opposition.
He laughed and the sound of his mirth bubbled out over the
battlefield. All who heard it became infected by its madness. In
frenzy, they fought anyone near, throwing away shields, ignoring
incoming blows in their lust to slay.
Kurt bounded over the piles of bodies and found himself face to face
with the four remaining champions, the mightiest warriors of the
host. Dieter, Avarone Bloodhawk, Kilgore and Tazelle She-Devil.
With a single blow he beheaded the Ogre. He saw the look of
astonishment freeze on its face even as it died. Tazelle and Avarone
came at him one from each side. He clubbed Avarone down with the
standard, as the womans blow chopped into the armoured plate of
his arm. He felt no pain. It was transmuted into raw energy, a fire
that burned into the core of his being. He felt as if his insides
were fusing in the heat, that he was being purified in the crucible
of battle.
The return sweep of the standard sent Tazelle flying through the air
like a broken doll. Within his chest the searing power seemed to be
reforming into something tangible and heavy. He felt himself
slowing.
He rushed toward Dieter, seeking to impale him on the horned skull on
top of the standard. Dieter stepped aside and let the momentum of
Kurts rush carry him onto his blade.
Sparks flew as Dieters long slender sword bored through
Kurts armour and into his heart.
Kurt stopped and looked down, astonished, at the blade protruding
from his chest. Lancing pain passed through him, then he reached out,
with a reflex as instinctive as the sting of a dying wasp, and with
one twist he broke the Unchanging Princes neck.
Truly thou art the chosen of Khorne, he heard Dieter say
before he fell to the ground.
Now agony lanced through Kurt, pulsing outward from his chest. It
seemed as if molten lead boiled through his veins. Even the energy
flowing from the standard was not enough to maintain him. Black spots
danced before his eyes and he staggered, holding onto the banner for
support.
The sound of battle receded into the distance and Dieters words
echoed by a chanting chorus of bestial voices. At least it was
ending, thought the submerged part of him that was still human.
For a moment everything seemed clear and the red fury that had
clouded his mind lifted. He looked with fading sight on a battlefield
where nothing human stood. Men who had reduced themselves to beasts
fought on a plain running with rivers of blood.
Overhead in the sky loomed a titanic figure, larger than mountains,
which looked down with a hunger no mortal could comprehend, drinking
in the spectacle of his playthings at war, feeding on it, becoming
strong.
The chorus of voices in his head became one. It was a voice which
held a vast weariness and a vast lust; a voice older than the
stars.
Truly, Kurt, you are the chosen of Khorne, it said.
Blackness flowed over him and a wave of elemental fury drowned his
mind. He felt the change begin in his body. The black alien being
that had nestled within him, like wasps larvae within a
caterpillar, was emerging, entering the world through the husk of his
body.
The black armour creaked and split asunder. His chest and skull
exploded. Wings emerged from the remains of his body like those of a
butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Shaking the blood and filth from
itself, the new-born daemon gazed adoringly up at its master and
pledged itself to an eternity of carnage.
With a mighty leap it soared into the sky. Beneath it, small clusters
of warriors still battled on. It drank in the delicious scent of
their souls as it rose. Soon it looked down on tiny figures lost in
the vast panorama of a landscape laid waste by war and Chaos. It
turned north toward the Gates, beyong which lay its new home.
Somewhere in the furthest recesses of its mind, the thing that had
once beel Kurt von Diehl screamed, knowing that he was truly damned.
He was as much a part of the daemon as it had been part of him. He
was trapped in the prison of its being, forever.
In the sky the dark god laughed.