A Warhammer Fantasy Fan Story. Discretion Advised.
Blood for the Blood God!
Skulls for the Skull Throne!
Kill! Kill! Kill!
The growled Khornate war-cries echoed through Lethych’s mind as K’xxx’t, his Slaaneshi steed, carried him carried ever further. The daemon’s long, lithe legs smoothly devoured the tundra beneath its claws; such was its speed and endurance that Lethych had forgotten the last time he had made camp.
The athletically built Kurgan man required little food or sleep, such was the blessing of Slaanesh, though it had also manifested upon his physical form. Three purple horns, lithe and ribbed like the pincers of a daemonette, curled out from Lethych’s forehead, and his left shoulder mirrored the mutation on a larger scale. His left hand, which held the reins of his steed, had become misshapen: his fingers had started to fuse together while his thumb had grown thicker and scalier. The scales were of a similar shade to Lethych’s horns, and the rest of the skin upon the hand had turned pale lavender. Crowning it all was the vibrant purple mark of Slaanesh rendered perfectly upon the center of Lethych’s forehead; it was iridescent in the light of the eternal summer sun of the Chaos Wastes.
Much of Lethych’s armor had been stolen from him, but he had retained his leather tunic and pants as well as a purple scale male shirt. The former two items the Slaaneshi had made himself from Druchii skin; the latter he had crafted with scales taken from the head of a chimera. For weapons, he had retained only a heavily notched iron axe and a Naggorite crossbow with ten serrated bolts.
It wasn’t much, but it was all that Lethych needed.
He had long ago outridden his pursuers, a Khornate warband known as the Red Harvest, and had now turned back around and begun to pursue them. For the crimes of slaughtering his warband, the Tormented, and stealing the daemon sword Ze’grâg, Lethych had sentenced them to death.
Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed anyway, only that it did.
At the edge of his vision, Lethych spotted a cluster of figures. Each of K’xxx’t’s strides brought them into greater detail: they walked upon malformed legs, flailed their contorted appendages, and gibbered with inhuman mouths. No two were alike save for the fact that their bodies had been irreparably mangled by the powers of Chaos.
We will have no choice but to confront the spawn. Lethych said as he reached for his crossbow.
They have little soul-stuff, K’xxx’t replied, but it should be enough to sustain me for now..,
As the daemon spoke, an inky shudder ran down Lethych’s spine; the dark smile of Slaanesh blessed him as he took aim with his weapon. Veer to the left.
K’xxx’t obeyed, never slowing its pace, and Lethych took his shot; his crossbow spat its bolt directly into the large, sickeningly pulsing eye of one of the Chaos Spawn, bursting it in a shower of pus and gore.
Yet, Lethych did not have time for another shot; he slung his crossbow over his shoulder and pulled his axe as one of the other Chaos Spawn charged at him. The gibbering monstrosity flailed at Lethych with a gelid pink tentacle which ended in a bony, sickle-like blade. The Slaaneshi struck first, amputating the limb in a spray of sludgy black gore and leaving behind a hemorrhaging stump.
Another of the Spawn surged forward, striking with a muscular, red-skinned arm. It ended in a circular tooth-filled maw from which prismatic flames coruscated forth. K’xxx’t deftly leaped over the Chaos Spawn as Lethych shattered one of its three tormented faces with his axe; the Spawn crumpled to the ground with no sounds other than the tearing of its flesh and the spraying of its blood.
K’xxx’t lashed out at the next Chaos Spawn with its purple tongue that bore six black spines. The lithe muscle was as long as K’xxx’t itself, and it left behind six weeping wounds which bled into one another, causing a perfectly straight line of blood running down the Spawn’s skin. Another lash from K’xxx’t’s tongue saw the Spawn collapsing into a stream of ethereal pink energy from which the daemon drank liberally.
Working at a quicksilver pace, Lethych and K’xxx’t dispatched the rest of the Chaos Spawn, and the daemon glutted itself on the soul-stuff. Lethych’s muscles flexed and clenched as he found himself reinvigorated as well. Yet, the moment of peace ended as quickly as it had begun, shattered by the baleful, dirge-like note of an oliphant sounding off in the east.
What fresh hell is this? K’xxx’t hissed as it contorted its impossibly flexible neck such that the daemon’s gaze had become parallel with its tail.
Lethych looked over his shoulder. Beastmen. The word sounded as though he was speaking through gritted teeth.
The Tormented had often had to compete with the beastmen for meat, and there had been more than a few times when they had eaten the meat of the beast-men themselves. Lethych didn’t mind the idea of roasting one of the lumbering Gors over his cooking fire.
At the front of the beastmen stood the largest, a mighty Bullgor who was head and shoulders above the rest of his kin, and he wore a breastplate atop his leathers and pelts. Each of his meaty fists gripped an axe that Lethych would have been lucky to wield with both hands. The blade of each weapon bore a cavalcade of notches, silently telling the origins of the skulls upon the Bullgor’s belt.
The beast-men herd stopped a few feet away from Lethych, at which point the Bullgor emerged from the herd. Despite the fact that he was mounted on K’xxx’t, Lethych found himself looking up at the beast-man.
“Hail,” Lethych said simply.
“You are in the hunting ground of my herd,” the Bullgor replied, rendering the Dark Tongue in a broken, rumbling voice that Lethych found to be only slightly more tolerable than the gibbering of Chaos Spawn.
“I was simply passing through,” the Slaaneshi replied, “I have no quarrel with you or yours.”
The Bullgor did not offer a reply.
I think you confused him. K’xxx’t whispered. If we go now, we have a good chance at outrunning them.
Lethych fought to keep himself from grinning. I think this chance encounter may prove to be more useful than originally anticipated. Flashing images depicting the beast-men herd butchering Lethych’s Khornate foes accompanied the words.
You’re assuming that the Bullgor will decide not to split you from head to groin with his axes.
I have treated him well.
Beast-men do not need much provocation.
Yet, before Lethych could issue a riposte, the Bullgor spoke:
“You are meat.”
The Slaaneshi grinned. “You would think to claim me as your next meal?”
Lethych already knew the answer; the bloodlust swirling in the Bullgor’s eyes was plain for all to see. The beast-man himself met Lethych with silence as his herd began to stir. While the other beast-men had not yet readied themselves to attack; guttural words susurrated among them.
“What if I were to offer you a greater meal than myself and my steed,” Lethych replied, “a feast truly befitting of you and your herd.”
“We are hungry now,” the Bullgor replied, “and your flesh is here now.”
“And you cannot wait longer?”
The Bullgor gave a deep, bellowing roar as he hefted his axe and swung it at Lethych; the Slaaneshi evaded the strike only by the grace of the Dark Prince himself. Quicker still was Lethych in retaliating, carving into the Bullgor’s stomach with his axe to free the guts within. The beast-man’s entrails spilled out in a spray of gore as he staggered back.
Your herd shall have its meat now. K’xxx’t hissed as its tongue darted forth from its mouth to impale the Bullgor’s throat.
The beast-man barely managed to choke out a gurgled roar as he crumpled to the ground.
“Feast!” Lethych screamed, his voice shrill and ethereal like that of a banshee.
The beast-men wasted no time in partaking, swarming over the corpse of their former leader with vulturous glee; the sounds of tearing flesh, breaking bones, and gnashing teeth inevitably followed. As the spectacle dragged on, another beast-man approached Lethych.
He was significantly smaller and rangier than the Bullgor, and he wore robes made from a variety of skins: man, beast, and otherwise. They were adorned with symbols and talismans of the Ruinous Powers. In his left hand, the beast-man held a gnarled staff crowned by the skull of another Bullgor.
“The Dark Gods smile upon you,” the beast-man said by way of greeting. Unlike the Bullgor, his words were clearer, and his voice was quieter, but it still bore the same bleating undertone. “Let us speak for a while, Slaaneshi.”
“Very well, bray-shaman,” Lethych replied. “I will hear what you have to say.”
“Many are the things I have seen and felt, and the strongest is the rising presence of Kharneth. The veil between the real and the unreal grows ever thinner, and the Lord of Murder will soon send forth his legions.”
“You know, then, of the Red Harvest?” Lethych threw a sidelong glance at the feasting beast-men. Surprisingly, the Bullgor’s corpse had not been completely devoured, but Lethych was not sure how much longer it would last; the Slaaneshi found his grip on his axe tightening.
The bray-shaman nodded. “I have seen them in my visions; their thirsting blades will live up to their name. However, my visions have also told me that one not of our blood would join our herd. Who are you, Slaaneshi?”
“I am Lethych, last of the Tormented. And you, bray-shaman?”
“Etzhqu, of the Maulhorn herd.”
And I am K’xxx’t. The daemon hissed the words with an undertone of indignance.
“Dark greetings to you, flawless avatar of the Lord of Excess. Your presence is a good omen indeed.”
Lethych watched as Etzhqu’s gaze lingered upon K’xxx’t. It was only for a moment, and anyone not blessed with the grace of Slaanesh would have missed it, yet Lethych recognized the sin of Etzhqu well: it was that of coveting. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Lethych saw that the feast of the Maulhorn was almost at its end, and the sun remained high in the sky.
“Do you know where the Red Harvest is camped?” Lethych posed the question in a distant, ethereal tone.
“I cannot say for sure, but in my visions, I have seen a lake of blood with a herdstone upon its island, and the whispers of the Architect of Fate tell me that it is to the south-east.”
“Near the border of Naggaroth.” A tendril of hope curled within Lethych’s throat. The Slaaneshi had always taken great pleasure in murdering the Druchii, and it presented him another opportunity to gather crossbow bolts besides.
Etzhqu’s nod confirmed Lethych’s suspicions; the Slaaneshi met the gesture with a smile.
“Only one question remains then,” he said, “When do we leave?”
“Soon.” Etzhqu’s shriveled lips formed a savage grin.
Lethych suppressed a shudder; he had seen Chaos Spawn that had been more pleasant to look upon than the Bray-Shaman. Yet, he fell into silence as he turned his gaze once more upon the Maulhorn beast-men. Nothing remained of the Bullgor, but still they ate.
* * *
A chorus of shifts and rumples heralded the rising of the Maulhorn from their slumber; Lethych himself awoke with a pounding headache.
“Damn ale,” he muttered under his breath as he forced himself to rise.
Never gets old… K’xxx’t replied with a hissing chuckle.
“Let’s go.” Lethych tugged at the daemon’s reins as he mounted it.
The Maulhorn were already moving, led by the largest of the remaining gors with a trio of centigor prowling behind. Lethych and K’xxx’t slipped in behind them.
“Welcome,” Etzhqu said; the bray-shaman had mounted himself upon the innermost centigor.
“Thank you,” Lethych replied, “Did the Architect of Fate tell you anything more of what is to come?”
“I could divine nothing other than that we are already close.” Etzhqu paused to glance around at the sun and the Maulhorn. The beast-men had already worked themselves into a pounding jog. “If we maintain our current pace, we may reach it in another day…”
The shaman is correct. K’xxx’t whispered. I can already feel Ze’grâg crying out in pain… Feel it, Lethych… Extending a tendril of its own essence, the daemon reached into where Lethych’s emotions met his consciousness and tugged.
In an instant, Lethych felt a wave of ecstatic agony that had him half hissing as his spine stiffened.
And one last thing, my dear Lethych… K’xxx’t whispered in a voice that was like a silken carpet concealing a bed of razor blades.
Yes? the Slaaneshi replied, half-compelled by the will of his daemonic mount.
Don’t do that again.
* * *
“This whole place smells like shit,” Lethych hissed.
Twisted, blackened trees closed in around the Slaaneshi and his company, bearing fruit that, despite having shriveled into husks long ago, had become bloated once more. The rot-fruits had taken on a dirty yellow-green color, and from them oozed yellow-white pus that had streaks of red running through it. On the forest floor, worms, maggots, and other vermin churned the earth while rotflies buzzed above. In time to the cycles of the demoniac toil, bloated, pulsing boils rippled across the blighted ground, growing larger with each pulse.
One of the front ones soon burst, splattering one of the beast-men in fetid pus. Immediately, he let out a shrieking bleat as his hair and skin began to slough off while the flesh underneath rapidly succumbed to gangrene; he was soon nothing more than a pile of sludge that became the garden’s next meal.
Could we repeat that? K’xxx’t asked.
We still need at least some of the alive. Lethych replied dryly.
The Maulhorn warband lurched into a halt as they cried out and brandished their weapons. A chorus of ragged, shrill laughs, like a child in the grips of a howling fever-dream, tore through the air as the plagued soil gave birth to a litter of tiny, rotund, imp-like creatures. In many ways, they were like the fruit of the trees above, save that they bore limbs, horns, and unmistakably daemonic grins. Their laughs grew ever louder as they fell upon the beast-men.
They always look so different here. K’xxx’t said as it darted forward and lacerated one of the nurglings with its tongue; the tiny daemon burst in a cloud of blood and pus.
Lethych gave no reply as he tore his axe from his belt and cleaved at the daemons. Beside the Slaaneshi, the gors and centigors fought as well, though most had been reduced to either stomping at the nurglings with their hooves and slamming them with their fists. There were too many of them, and their rots disintegrated metal and flesh alike. As Lethych disemboweled another nurgling with his axe, he looked over his shoulder and watched as a centigor’s face was overtaken by three more of the daemons. A cry of pain heralded the snapping of bone and spraying of blood as the nurglings broke the beast-man’s jaw open and vomited into his mouth. The rest of his disfigured head melted into sizzling sludge.
We need to get back. Lethych said.
I could not agree more. K’xxx’t replied.
The daemon had already been in motion, speeding toward Etzhqu. The bray-shaman bleated out sorcerous incantations, and iridescent, sorcerous fire coruscated forth from the Bullgor skull upon his staff. Falling upon a patch of nurglings ahead, the flames annihilated the daemons; their death-screams were as child-like as their laughs. A chill ran down Lethych’s spine.
Four more of the gors among the Maulhorn succumbed to the Nurglite forest and the rot-cherubs within, yet the rest of the daemons were dispatched in only a few moments’ time. Etzhqu bleated directions as the Maulhorn fell back into marching order. Slowly, they continued to negotiate a path through the rot-garden. They cut down any branches that came too close and burst the boils that swelled up from the ground. More of the weapons succumbed to the blight of the forest and began to squirm like giant worms in their owners’ grasps. A moment later saw them convulsing to the next churnings of the earth. With roars of rage frothing from their lips, the beast-men cast the ensorcelled weapons to the ground and slew them.
The skeletal rot-trees yielded to a clearing in which stood the mightiest and most blighted of the Nurglite trees. Its trunk was twice as thick as the mightiest of the gors still among the Maulhorn, and the daemon-tree’s black-brown bark was as thick as plate mail. Bark and flesh alike split open near the tree’s roots, revealing a sideways maw that was rife with decay. Blood and pus oozed forth from bloated, darkened gums while the teeth were of a deep, yellow shade that bordered on green and brown. Many were the holes bored into the teeth; a swarm of miniscule daemon-maggots nested in each one.
Three pulsing clusters of growths that were somewhere between eggs and boils were anchored upon the tree around the sideways maw. Together, they formed a crude rendering of the threefold icon of the Lord of Decay.
Each of the daemon-tree’s branches was a thick as the trunks of the trees which surrounded it; there were seven branches in total. A heavy rusted bell suspended by a thick chain hung from each of them, and they began to chime as Lethych, Etzhqu, and the rest of the Maulhorn warband entered the clearing. Each heaving, sonorous note intertwined with the now-intensified buzzing of the rot-flies; together they formed a funereal dirge. Above it all wailed a shrill, primal force that kept time with the tolling of the bells:
“What is this that stands before me?
Beast-man herd with a Slaaneshi?
Enter into Grandfather’s Garden…
Where we curse the pure and favor the rotten!
Nurglite maggots cocoon, and rot-flowers bloom,
So spelling certain doom!”
The maw upon the daemon-tree opened wide, and seven equally rotted, vaguely humanoid creatures shambled forth. Their sickly skin had sloughed off in some places to reveal festering infections and bloated organs. Each of the demoniac creatures had but a single eye and horn, and they wielded mighty, crooked swords that wore cloaks of rust and dripped with the liquified poxes of their wielders.
Plaguebearers and a Feculent Gnarlmaw. K’xxx’t hissed; the disdain in the daemon’s voice was palpable.
There will be more. Lethych replied grimly.
“Hold the line!” Etzhqu cried before starting to recite a guttural prayer to the Ruinous Powers.
The frontline gors consolidated into a tight block with their weapons pointed forward, and each of the three centigors hurled a hand-axe at once of the plaguebearers. Though each weapon thrown found its mark deep in the guts of one of the daemons, the rotted paladins of Nurgle shambled on as though nothing had happened.
As the first crashes of the battle settled, Etzhqu finished his incantation. Nine prismatic tendrils ensorcelled the Bray-shaman’s staff; each one was of a different hue that was similar to the others only in the depth and radiance that all of them shared. In an instant, they snapped together and melded into a lance of iridescent pink flames that hurled itself at the Feculent Gnarlmaw.
The daemon-tree’s mouth shrunk into itself before bursting outward to unleash a quaking belch; a miasma of yellow-brown gas wafted forth. Etzhqu’s sorcery was unraveled as the airborne blight embraced it.
It was not long before the Maulhorn found themselves locked in melee with the plaguebearers. The daemons fought with disciplined somnolence; they swung their swords up and down, but only to strike. Even the smallest of their cuts festered into an infection that had their mortal foes crying out in agony. The plaguebearers did not concern themselves with dodging or parrying, barely noticing when the beast-men struck them.
Lethych had taken up one of the makeshift halberds which had a gore-caked messer as its head, and he cleaved at the plaguebearers from K’xxx’t’s back. The Slaaneshi steed lashed out with its tongue, all the while hissing about its disgust for Nurgle and his daemons. Etzhqu brought forth more sorcerous flames and hurled them at the Feculent Gnarlmaw as still more plaguebearers shambled forth from it.
As the din of battle rose, the bells upon the Feculent Gnarlmaw began to chime, and the daemon within sang:
“Fight as you might,
You won’t live through the night.
With Nurglings gurgling and rot-princes bellowing
Your burial will not be saddening!”
The song grated on Lethych’s mind as he and K’xxx’t continued to cut down more plaguebearers. Lethych found himself grateful for the fact that the next voice he heard was that of his steed:
I recognize this one now… He is Kuth’ghlor-thrax, one of the Great Unclean Ones.
Lovely. Lethych said his stomach clenched with nausea and frustration. He had heard tales of what followed in the wake of the mightiest, foulest, and most jovial of Nurgle’s daemons. Let us see to it that that tree never blooms again.
K’xxx’t’s velvety chuckle rippled through Lethych’s mind. I could not agree more.
Gritting his teeth, Lethych drove his halberd through the throat of the nearest plaguebearer as Etzhqu dispatched three more with his sorcery.
I am ready when you are. K’xxx’t said.
It’s now or never. Lethych replied tersely.
For you.
K’xxx’t first stride propelled the daemon into a leap that took it over beast-men and plaguebearers alike. It leaped again almost as soon as it landed, each time hurtling closer to the Feculent Gnarlmaw.
Yes, yes, yes! Kuth’ghlor-thrax wailed. Come closer, come closer; do not be a loner! Join the scene, and we will turn your skin green!
The daemon-tree lurched forward and flailed one of its bell-bearing limbs at Lethych and K’xxx’t; three bulging clusters upon the limb burst in showers of blood and pus. Yet, K’xxx’t moved with impossible speed, allowing both the daemon and Lethych to avoid Kuth’ghlor-thrax’s onslaught entirely. Lethych’s soul throbbed; this favor from Slaanesh would have to be repaid.
Pushing the thought from his mind, Lethych grinned as he cleaved at the Feculent Gnarlmaw with his halberd. A shroud of violet mist ensorcelled its messer-head as it carved through the air; Kuth’ghlor-thrax shrieked in pain as the blade split open the daemon-tree’s bark. Thick, black-green sap oozed forth from the wound, accompanied by a new, gangrenous stench. Again and again Lethych swung, carving into Kuth’ghlor-thrax and its vessel until both had fallen silent. With the last blow, Lethych’s weapon began to melt into a pile of dark sludge.
He cast the weapon aside with little more than a shrug as he turned his attention on the battle that still raged behind him. The beast-men still struggled against the plaguebearers, yet the daemons were retreating back into the rot-garden. Lethych aided his warband in routing those that remained before returning to Etzhqu
“Victory is ours,” Lethych said to the Bray-shaman.
“Behind,” Etzhqu replied.
Lethych turned around right as the sound of splitting wood tore through the air. Already, new growth had begun to fester from the mangled remains of Kuth’ghlor-thrax’s vessel; it was a mass of sickly green fungus that oozed with the daemon’s sap-blood.
We need to leave. K’xxx’t said. Now.
What of the Maulhorn? Lethych asked.
The beast-men are expendable; this has always been known.
Suddenly, the Nurglite fungus burst, and a roiling black miasma surged through the air. Lethych held his breath as he threw his head down. A cacophony of ragged, hacking coughs came from the Maulhorn, soon morphing into groans of death as they collapsed. Even K’xxx’t, despite the unnatural vitality granted by She Who Thirsts, found itself coughing.
Take us away from this place… Lethych struggled to form the thought; dysphoria swirled in his mind as his vision went in and out of focus.
He could only hope that K’xxx’t had heard him.
* * *
Lethych could not say how much time he had spent face down in the dirt. Still, he was alive, and there was something to be said for that.
The Slaaneshi forced himself to rise. Looking around the clearing, he saw that the corpses of the Maulhorn, Etzhqu included, had already been mostly consumed by the maggots and daemon-mites that churned the fetid ground. No trace of K’xxx’t remained either.
Lethych was alone.
A high-pitched, singing voice shattered the silence with notes too high for any mortal tongue, delivering baleful words above a chorus of cackling, all uttered in the same voice:
“What is this? What is this?
A Slaanesh lost in the Nurglite swamp?
Who are you? Who are you?
A mortal who has lost his way…”
The voice trailed off into sinister silence as Lethych tried to find the source. He was fruitless.
“Who are you?” the Slaaneshi growled.
He was answered with another bout of cackling laughter as the voice began to sing once more:
“Who am I? Who am I?
One who shares a goal with you.
Who am I? Who am I?
A possessor of lore forbidden.
Who am I? Who am I?
The guide for the mortal who has lost his way…”
“Reveal yourself, daemon,” Lethych hissed. Already, the inkling had formed: this creature, whatever it was, had saved him from the last of Kuth’ghlor-thrax’s poxes.
An orb of iridescent pink flames burst into existence before Lethych, and from it emerged a gangly, vaguely man-like creature that was a head shorter than the Slaaneshi. Bright pink skin covered the whole of the daemon’s body. Upon the center of its torso was an utterly inhuman face. Its narrow eyes were bright white while its enormous, yellowed beak housed two mouths, one nestled within the other. Needle-like teeth filled each pair of jaws like cultists flocking to the call of their sorcerer. The daemon had four arms, and each rangy limb ended in an equally rangy three-fingered hand. Each finger was a diminutive replica of the daemon’s arms; this aberrant tessellation continued into infinity.
“Lovely,” Lethych said.
“Now you see, now you see,” the daemon said, “Qu’vriz’zee on your way will lead!”
“I have no need for one of your ilk, daemon. May the Architect of Fate take you back quickly.”
Qu’vriz’zee threw up its arms. “Disagree! Disagree! Know what you see, for I have seen! Ze’grâg of Slaanesh is the prize of thee!”
Lethych scowled and said nothing. The schemes of Tzeentch were rivaled only by the knowledge possessed by the god himself; his daemons were no different.
Qu’vriz’zee sang again:
“Your heart I know! Your heart I know!
Your hatred for the Red Harvest grows.
Know I do! Know I do!
With me on hand, you can pursue.”
Each of Qu’vriz’zee’s words grated on Lethych’s mind like iron nails across a steel blade; the velvet elegance of K’xxx’t was long forgotten.
“I have but one final question for you, daemon,” Lethych said, “Answer truthfully.”
Qu’vriz’zee leaped with joy. “Ask away! Ask away! Hear what the mind of Qu’vriz’zee has to say!”
“Do you know where Ze’grâg is?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Each word was like the ringing of a victory bell.
Lethych’s shoulders and chest clenched at the malefic glee roiling from the daemon. With a sigh of resignation, the Slaaneshi spoke his next, fateful words:
“Lead on.”
Qu’vriz’zee yipped as it turned around and hopped away from Lethych. He ran after the daemon, barely keeping up. All the while, his mouth turned dry, and his guts turned to lead.
He knew that he had made a horrible mistake.
* * *
The Nurglite rot-garden eventually gave way to the desolate tundra that constituted much of the Chaos Wastes, and Lethych gave a shadow of a smile as he looked up at the bleak, white sun that seemed never to retreat from its zenith.
Qu’vriz’zee barely spoke as it led Lethych on, except to squawk about how they were getting ever closer to Ze’grâg. Lethych’s joy at the knowledge was hollow. How much more would his search for the daemon-sword take before it was finally over? The Red Harvest had killed the Tormented, the daemons of Nurgle had butchered the Maulhorn, and Lethych now found himself bound to an aberrant child of the most inscrutable of the Dark Gods. What little mirth still within Lethych crumbled into despair as he found himself yearning for the company of K’xxx’t. That daemon had always been faithful, if caustic, and significantly more useful than the damned pink horror before him now.
As if sensing Lethych’s spite toward it, Qu’vriz’zee began to squawk again, tearing the Slaaneshi from his ruminations:
“Ahead! Ahead!
Blood and death!
Ahead! Ahead!
Druchii skulls and Druchii heads!”
Lethych’s gaze fell upon a camp off in the distance; it was a collection of black tents. Each one was made of exquisite, blackened leather and bore the crest of Naggarond, capital of Naggaroth: a golden, clawed hand gripping a white crescent moon upon a regal purple shield. The stench of death, carried on the slow, chilling wind, followed. Many dark elf corpses were strewn about the camp with their throats slashed open; the puddles of blood glistened ominously in the sunlight. Three naked Druchii women dressed in scant red robes had been piled in the center, charred and mangled. Lethych smirked; he had never cared much for the Brides of Khaine anyway.
The Slaaneshi partook of some of the bounty that had been left among the Druchii dead: a quiver of crossbow bolts and a pair of swords, which he wore upon a belt made from human skin. At all times, the baleful gaze of Qu’vriz’zee weighed upon him.
Lethych loaded his crossbow with a full magazine and pulled back the lever. There were thirteen bolts, each one serrated, and the Slaaneshi sincerely considered unleashing the hail of Druchii steel fully upon Qu’vriz’zee. He already knew where both Ze’grâg and the Red Harvest were now; they could not be far. Still, the crossbow remained dormant as Lethych rose to his full height and met Qu’vriz’zee’s gaze. A terse nod sent the daemon into its half-skipping stride. Lethych followed with his crossbow aimed.
* * *
“Blood for the Blood God!”
“Skulls for the Skull Throne!”
“Kill! Kill! Kill!”
Grim delight curdled within Lethych as the Khornate war-cries shattered the air. Off in the distance raged a bonfire overlooked by a towering stone obelisk from which a mob of hulking men charged forth. The warriors of the Red Harvest wore scavenged armor splattered in blood and adorned with skulls, and they wielded monolithic mauls and savage axes. Many were the scabs and scars upon the warriors’ thickened skin; they were the canticles of the Lord of Murder.
Lethych’s crossbow clicked as it spat a bolt that split open a warrior’s skull. He collapsed with a final bellow as blood and brain matter oozed forth. The rampage of the Red Harvest did not slow, nor did Lethych; bolt after bolt his Druchii-made crossbow unleashed upon his foes. From behind arced the volleys of prismatic flames that coruscated from Qu’vriz’zee’s outstretched claws.
Knowing that he would not have time for another shot, Lethych slung his crossbow his shoulder and tore his swords from their sheaths. He knew Naggorite blades to be among the sharpest in the world.
Qu’vriz’zee skipped back and continued to unleash its sorcery. One of the Khornate marauders cleaved at the daemon with her axe only to have the whole of her face incinerated in a white flash. More of the warriors charged the daemon, screams frothing from their lips.
Lethych lunged and slashed open a thigh with one blade; he slit the warrior’s throat with the other. The Slaaneshi took every step with grace and precision, carefully negotiating a path through the carnage. His Naggorite blades danced across the canvas of man-flesh it had been given like the disemboweling claws of Slaanesh’s Blissbringers.
“Slaanesh is with me this day!” Lethych wailed, emptying all the air from his lungs and leaving them burning.
Immediately, one of the Khornates whirled around and brought his axe down upon Lethych with a guttural howl. The Slaaneshi sidestepped as the rush of displaced air kissed his skin. With another step, he drove his left blade straight into his foe’s guts. Druchii steel parted leather, skin, and flesh with ease, bringing forth a hissing spray of hot gore. Tearing his weapon free, Lethych kicked the wound, sending his foe to the ground with a scream of agony. The Slaaneshi silenced the Khornate with a blade through the throat.
Aided by Qu’vriz’zee’s sorcery, it did not take more than an hour for Lethych to dispatch his foes. A grueling jog took him and the daemon to the bonfire beyond. Lethych’s nerves screamed with pain that morphed into pleasure then back into pain and, finally, back into pleasure. From his lips rang a cathartic wail as tears ran freely down his face.
Before him now in their baleful glory stood the bonfire and the obelisk. The fire dwarfed Lethych, and the obelisk was taller still. The whole of it was composed of blackened, blasted stone, and many were the arcane runes carved upon it. The lore of forbidden rites held court with patches of dried gore, smeared feces, and many deep gouges in the stone itself, carved by blade and maul and hoof and horn. Above it all, at the very top of the obelisk, reigned the eight-pointed star of Chaos rendered in pitted iron.
From behind the obelisk emerged another champion of the Ruinous Powers. He was larger and more muscular than the others of his warband; the rippling muscles of his exposed upper body glistened in the sun. Many were the skull-runes of Khorne carved upon his flesh. A horned barbute encased his head, and he wore heavily plated greaves and boots. His belt a large buckle that depicted the icon of the Blood God, consecrated in the gore of his most recent slaughter. In his left hand, he held the daemon-sword Ze’grâg.
It was a svelte, elegant blade made from shining steel with a spiked golden guard, a weapon with which Lethych’s Druchii blades could not compare. A large gem that shifted between pink and purple served as the daemon-sword’s pommel. Upon it was carved the icon of Slaanesh, the very same one upon Lethych’s forehead.
“I have been expecting you,” the Khornate said as he flourished Ze’grâg.
Lethych leaped forward and unleashed a sweeping strike with his left sword. The Khornate beat back the weapon with a brutal hack from Ze’grâg before driving it toward Lethych’s throat. He ducked just in time, receiving only the caress of rushing air rather than the kiss of the daemon-sword’s edge.
Take me… it whispered.
Desperation and yearning swirled within Lethych; a wave of writhing ecstasy and euphoria followed. Ze’grâg would be his. The Slaaneshi threw himself at the Khornate champion, weaving a web of steel around him as he danced. Many were the wounds he inflicted upon the Slaughterpriest of the Blood God; together they formed the icon of Slaanesh.
“How dare you defile my flesh?” the Khornate champion howled with wrathful indignance.
He hacked at Lethych with Ze’grâg, and the icon of Slaanesh upon his chest glowed purple. Ze’grâg’s silvered blade writhed and twisted as it shaped itself into a lithe arm ending in a long pincer encased in a purple carapace. It beckoned to Lethych.
The Slaaneshi lurched toward the claw and was soon grabbed by it, at which point he was slammed into the Slaughterpriest’s chest; the impact sent a wave of orgiastic pleasure crashing through him. Slaanesh is with us this day!
Qu’vriz’zee’s screeching slashed away the mercurial haze into which Lethych’s mind had fallen.
“Sorcery! Sorcery!
Waxing Slaaneshi debauchery!
Sorcery! Sorcery!
Tzeentch looks kindly upon thee!
Sorcery! Sorcery!
Wielded by Qu’vriz’zee!”
As the Pink Horror gave a final squawk, it hurled itself at Lethych and the Khornate Slaughterpriest. Neither could dodge; they were already merging into one flesh.
No! Ze’grâg seethed. Be gone from us, Tzeentchian mutilation!
Qu’vriz’zee latched onto Lethych and the Slaughterpriest, at which point it dispersed into a tide of iridescent pink flames that washed over the two men. Overwhelming agony crashed through Lethych as both his mind and flesh were torn to accommodate the Slaughterpriest and Qu’vriz’zee. He wanted nothing more than to scream but found that he could not; there were no longer any mouths upon his flesh. The Slaaneshi clung to what shreds of sanity he had left. He had but two choices:
Endure, or die.
Wave after wave of torment coruscated through Lethych’s nerves; each screamed like the damned souls of the Realm of Chaos. All sense of time and existence was lost as his field of vision became pure white.
* * *
Lethych stood upon a jagged platform of blasted black-blue rock which floated at the center of an infinite sea of fire. Above it hung an endless void separated by shimmering sheets of dazzling colors.
His body was no longer as it once been, either. He had more than doubled in height, and lavender-gray skin encased his thick, rippling muscles. A pair of black, bat-like wings crowned by talons folded over his shoulders like a cloak, and his horns had grown larger. His hands had grown into claws, and in his grasp was the daemon-sword Ze’grâg, now almost as long as him.
Agony blossomed in Lethych’s chest as an eye of blue flames opened upon it and glared up at him. Qu’vriz’zee’s shrill squawks desecrated his mind:
Forget not me, forgot not me
Qu’vriz’zee with you forever
Help you see…
“No…” Lethych snarled with Khornate contempt.
Too long had he waited for this moment, to claim Ze’grâg and become one with the Lord of Excess!
Not the way, not the way.
Qu’vriz’zee help you see:
Two! Two!
Two shall you serve!
Forever divided, forever tormented!
Two! Two!
You shall not escape my master
No matter what you do!
As Qu’vriz’zee’s song ended in a chorus of mocking laugher, a tendril of Ze’grâg’s will caressed Lethych.
We shall have our vengeance soon enough. the daemon-sword whispered, its voice soft and sharp and velvet all at once. Slaanesh is with us.
Lethych’s expression fell into one of hardened conviction. Slaanesh is with us.
His apotheosis complete, the daemon prince spread his wings and let out a howl as he hurled himself into the eldritch eddies of the Warp.
The End
Liked this piece?
Find my story of the Ruinous Powers in the grim darkness of the far future here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/offering-of-skulls
Check out Diabolical Ascension here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/diabolical-ascension-i-awakening
Find links to my published works here: https://talesofvalorandwoe.wixsite.com/zeragabaalkhal/post/the-other-scrawlings-of-isaiah-burt
Buy me a Ko-Fi here: https://ko-fi.com/zeragabaalkhal
Comments