Chapter 30
INTERLUDE.
Mordian Blackgrip.
Slaves crowded the narrow courtyard of the captured fort. Their miserable cries blended into a single chorus of suffering. The whistle of lashes and the cracking of whips reminded Mordian of home. There, on the Zharrduk Plains, these sounds never ceased, day or night. The tough hides of the greenskin scum had to be regularly treated with the whip to beat some sense into their dull heads.
Here, in the territory of the so-called Empire of Sigmar, most of the new slaves were man-things. Weak, fragile, but more obedient and dexterous than Orcs. Tens of thousands of these lesser beings would replenish the workshops, and the surplus would be sacrificed to the Father of Darkness.
Drazhoath the Ash, who led the Legion of Azgorh, had long noticed that the blood and suffering of humans were very well received by Daemons, working as excellent bait for the lesser spirits of the Warp.
Standing on the tower of the captured fort, Mordian pondered what kinds of powerful weapons and machines he could forge by sacrificing the new human slaves. On the other hand, the Daemonsmith knew that some Norscan tribes would pay a good price for young women. Among Mordian's trading partners were powerful chieftains marked by the gifts of the Four, covens of sorcerers, and even Shamans from the degenerate Fimir race. All of them eagerly bought female captives.
Black Citadel, where Mordian spent his days of exile, not only protected the Dawi-Zharr domains but also served as a trading outpost. Therefore, the Daemonsmith directed all his apprentices and kin to seize trophies. Future commodities for his trade operations.
— Boss, boss! — a squeaky, vile voice sounded behind him.
Mordian did not reply. He had actually heard the minion's footsteps long ago, but deliberately provoked its nasty nature. The Dawi-Zharr knew that fear was battling the innate desire to strike the superior in the back within the Hobgoblin's miserable soul. This amused the Dwarf. He intentionally waited, checking how far the pathetic minion, who couldn't even scratch him, would go.
— Boss? — the Hobgoblin questioned with whiny notes, moving a little closer.
It seemed that cowardice had won over the bloodlust in its soul. That meant it would live a little longer, as long as it was useful.
Mordian turned, surveying the minion with a contemptuous look. Very few of the Dawi-Zharr's glances were not contemptuous, however. Only Drazhoath the Ash and the mighty Prophet-Sorcerers did he look upon without challenge.
— Speak, worm, — the Dwarf ordered, addressing the greenskin.
— Big boss Mordian, — the Hobgoblin grovelled, mangling the words. — All your boys came back from raids. Captured many, many man-things. Man-things cry, whine, call for their boss. Funny!
The Hobgoblin seemed to be trying to soften some bitter pill. Mordian sensed notes of greater fear in its voice than the greenskin usually felt toward him. The Daemonsmith pointed his index finger at the pathetic minion. The Sorcerer's will immediately resonated in the Warp with a wave of suppressive power. The Hobgoblin fell onto the stone floor of the tower, crushed by an invisible force.
— Get to the point! — the Dwarf barked harshly at him. — Do not dare waste your superior's time with your stupid words or I will spend your blood on the sacrificial altar.
— Sorry, boss! Mercy! — the terrified Hobgoblin rattled out very quickly. — Funguschewer's boys didn't come back. Your apprentice Kolgar too. I sent my boys. Good ones, Wolf ones, fast. Corpses, boss. Ours got cut up. All cut up!
— Kolgar?
— Him too! Aaaaiii!
The Hobgoblin shrieked. Anger boiled in the Dawi-Zharr's dark heart, and his magic pressed the pathetic servant harder against the stone slabs.
Kolgar. Nephew. He had good potential. Too young and inexperienced to challenge his teacher's authority. He could have brought much benefit before he started to pose a threat. Centuries of work, a multitude of first-class weapons, artifacts…
The thought of lost profit covered Mordian's vision with a black veil of darkness. For a few moments, the Dwarf seemed to drop out of reality. Only darkness all around, where the gnashing of his teeth and the crunching of the pathetic minion's bones resounded.
If Drazhoath found out… More accurately, when he found out about this, he would amuse himself and reproach him. No matter how many victories Mordian won, no matter how many slaves he captured, the Castellan of Black Citadel would mention the loss of a promising apprentice at every opportunity.
When the Daemonsmith shook off the intoxicating shroud of anger, the Hobgoblin at his feet had already turned into a mess with protruding shards of broken bones.
"Ash Whip," the Dawi-Zharr recalled.
The magical dagger that he and Kolgar had forged together. The sorcery woven into the structure included enchantments that would help Mordian locate the artifact from almost any distance. If the killer took the dagger... And which of the lesser beings would not want to possess the masterpiece weaponry of the Dawi-Zharr? All of them want it!
Mordian felt his teeth gnash again, and a fiery wind filled his breath. Revenge! That was all the Dawi-Zharr could think of now. Whoever had disgraced him by depriving him of his apprentice, Mordian would find the culprits and make them regret the day they were born. Because there would never be light for them again. Only darkness and the flickering of white-hot coals in the deepest torture chambers of Black Citadel.
---
This thing could be the death of me.
The enchanted Dawi-Zharr dagger lay before me on a flat, decaying stump. In the gathering twilight, the sorcerous runes wrapping the curved blade flickered dimly red.
"Shed a little of your blood onto it," Loom-Pia instructed me.
I carefully nicked the pad of my left pinky finger, letting a few drops of blood fall onto the blade of the magical dagger. The enchanted metal instantly greedily soaked up the scarlet moisture. A moment later, there were no traces of blood on the blade.
"Curious," the Hypno-Toad stated. "The Wind of Aqshy, a lesser daemonic essence, the containment contour also acts as an amplifier…"
"Tell me, please, can we use this thing? And how safe is it?"
"Take it in your hand, warmblood."
I picked up the dagger, noticing that its runes flickered even more dimly.
"Nick your tongue with it."
"Huh?" I was slightly stunned.
"Make an incision on your tongue with the blade, warmblood, without sticking your tongue out too far," the Hypno-Toad merely gave me a more detailed instruction instead of an answer.
Well, alright, let's try. Literally taste the Dwarfen steel. Nicking my tongue was disgusting, but I didn't regret obeying the Slaan. The nasty pain was immediately replaced by a sensation of heat. I felt a surge of strength, similar to the moment I was zapped by Skaven Warp Lightning. However, the state was different. Less madness, clearer thinking, very warm, and a desire to move.
"Thanks to the wound, I created a channel through your defense," Loom-Pia explained. "The Wind of Aqshy partially entered your body and also flowed around it."
A state of magical saturation. Alongside blood frenzy, it was a way of temporary enhancement. Placing the completely extinguished dagger on the stump, I walked briskly along the clearing, easily jumping over fallen trees. The wound on my tongue had closed. The blood in me was bubbling and craving feats.
"We can also use the artifact's sorcerous essence," the Slaan continued to explain. "To do this, it needs to be activated at a moment when you have absorbed life forces. Then I will spend a portion to touch the magic hidden in the artifact."
"Meaning you will summon the Ash Whip?"
"Precisely, warmblood. I will summon it and use it myself in the best way."
"Excellent. Is the dagger completely discharged now? How do I recharge it?"
"The artifact's power will replenish itself from the surrounding Winds of Magic. However, it cannot absorb them while being too close to you."
So, for recharging, I would have to leave the little knife somewhere among my things. The problem was that the dagger's design practically screamed: "Look, I'm a dark artifact for very evil heretics!"
"Will this little knife not infect us with the taint of Chaos?" I clarified, just in case.
"That is practically impossible, warmblood. My spirit is protected from the taint of the Ruinous Powers. Yours too. The essence contained in the artifact is weak and does not possess a powerful mind."
Excellent. So the main problem with the dagger was exposure. Markus Schlossberg sincerely believed that Sigmar healed my wounds and protected me from magic. So far, the excuse worked. But if I started slashing enemies with an Ash Whip, even my loyal standard-bearer might have serious questions.
And what should I do? Throw away the dagger or give it to someone else?
My weakness was the need to stack frenzy to go beyond human capabilities. If an enemy attack was sudden, I simply might not be able to ramp up fast enough. And a charged dagger gives at least some instantaneous boost of power. All I needed to do was scratch my tongue. So I would keep the dangerous little knife for now.
Hiding the knife in the forest not far from the camp, I briskly walked toward the tent with the wounded. I had no desire to sleep at all.
— Halt, who goes there… ah, it's the Reichsmarschall! — two sentries with halberds saluted me.
In their voices were good-natured teasing and even a touch of respect. Rumors had already spread through the army about my encounter with another Chaos Sorcerer and the new enemy head we brought back from the last raid. The surviving Huntsmen, as well as the rescued peasants, vividly described my recent exploits. Many soldiers in the army had decided that I was either genuinely special, very cunning, or simply an extremely lucky son of a bitch. Even Max was impressed.
Soon, the large silhouette of the hospital tent loomed before me. During the day, you could see the embroidered dove on it—the symbol of the goddess Shallya. Trying to be quiet, I entered. It was spacious and empty inside. Most of the potential cots were currently stacked in the corner, awaiting their time. These were a kind of camp bed. Simple beds made of wood and fabric.
Liandra was lying on one now, and next to her sat a smiling man in a green robe. His flowing beard was the color of autumn foliage. The Jade Wizard Master. A practitioner of the Wind of Life, Ghyran.
In the Master's left hand was a jade bowl filled with water. From there, he took a little moisture with the very tips of his fingers and, with a smooth movement, dropped these droplets onto the Elf's bare abdomen. Green sparks flashed, immediately passing through the girl's skin. There was practically no trace left of the terrible wound. Most likely, there wouldn't even be a scar.
— Thank you, I'm already better, — the Elf said, noticing my visit.
— No need for thanks, daughter of Ulthuan, — the Master replied cordially. — When you return to your distant homeland, tell Master Teclis that the Colleges of the Empire are using his gift as intended.
— If I get the chance, I certainly will, — the Elf replied quite seriously.
— And do you require treatment, young Captain? — the Jade Master asked me. — Usually, only very wealthy individuals can afford my services, but I make an exception for the brave defenders of the Empire.
— Thank you, — I bowed slightly. — I do not require treatment. Liandra took the wounds intended for me.
The man smiled, and merry sparks danced in his eyes. I didn't even know if he took the war so lightly because it was his first time on the battlefield, or if he had seen everything and now feared nothing. In any case, I liked the Jade Order Master much more than the Amber Shamans.
— What an astonishing case of camaraderie between representatives of different races, — the man said. — In Altdorf, I came across a book about a young man from the Empire and a Slayer Dwarf who travel together. I thought it was a beautiful fiction. A fairy tale for an unsophisticated audience. However, looking at your example, I can believe such stories too.
While we chatted with the Master, I felt a malicious glare, gleaming from the other end of the tent. The young Shaman lay there. Her green eyes were like those of a cornered animal. Already doomed, but wishing to bite the hunter before death. I tried not to look that way.
After making sure Liandra was alright, I went to sleep. However, before that, I still managed to meet with Markus and Adora.
— Here, — I handed them several large, strangely shaped gold coins bearing the image of a bull's head. — New trophies. Try to buy what the detachment needs most. Also, new refugees joined the army this evening. Perhaps some of them will want to join our unit.
— I will look among them for worthy people loyal to the faith, — Markus declared solemnly.
— And I will ask if they have combat experience or useful skills, — Adora added. — And you need your clothes repaired again. Will you throw in some extra silver or gold?
— Fine.
I was almost certain that the cunning girl would try to pocket some of these funds. Save some money aside. However, on the other hand, I also knew that Adora performed her assigned tasks quite effectively. I wouldn't have the time or strength to control every issue in the detachment. I had to rely on my subordinates.
The night passed calmly, although I couldn't fall asleep for a long time due to the magical energy surge. Then a sensible thought occurred to me. I asked Loom-Pia to tell me the history of the Lizardmen's struggle against the Daemons. The Hypno-Toad, in his almost emotionless voice, began monotonously listing the complex names of the Temple-Cities where the cold-blooded followers of the Old Ones held the line against the hordes of the Immaterium. The podcast was very soothing. I was knocked out in about five minutes.
In the morning, I met Erik at the mess pot. It smelled of something tasty with a familiar mushroom aroma.
— How are the results? — I asked.
— Results in cooking breakfast or…
— Or, — I nodded pointedly.
— The pistol is of good quality. The mechanism is interesting, — Erik listed the merits of the Dwarfen pistol, but then added in a whisper. — Many of our comrades better not see this weapon…
Loom-Pia did not detect magic in the pistol. Only some residual Wind of Fire in the gunpowder mixture. But the pistol was entirely covered with heretical symbols. I had to try to remove these decorations without damaging the weapon itself. Otherwise, the devout Sigmarites would have questions about this addition to my arsenal as well. But Magg was happy.
When the Ogre woke up, he walked along the edge of the forest and chopped down bushes, tall grass, and young trees with the Dwarfen axe. He easily held the two-handed axe in his right hand. The Witch Hunters would hardly object to him. Ogres are known for their resilience to Chaos and their omnivorous nature, not only in terms of food but also concerning their choice of weapons.
After having a mushroom stew made from yesterday's Hobgoblins, I headed to the next army command staff meeting.
The guard at the Margrave's tent let me pass this time without jokes. A table was already set inside. Juicy sausages were still steaming on the plates, glistening with fat. They smelled of smoke, urgently prompting my stomach to produce new doses of digestive enzymes. The sausages were garnished with crisp sauerkraut. It crunched pleasantly on my new young teeth.
This time, Olger Hawk was in no hurry to start the meeting, giving everyone present a chance to enjoy breakfast in peace. I thanked him for that. Cool beer was the perfect accompaniment to such a meal. And even the bland Wisseland flatbreads seemed an excellent complement to the strong flavor of the sausages. Several toasts were raised to the health of Emperor Karl Franz of the Holswig-Schliestein dynasty, a prayer of thanks to Sigmar Heldenhammer, and many warm words directed at the Margrave.
Olger Hawk himself seemed to be waiting, as if preparing to deliver a particularly powerful rhetorical blow to his unsuspecting audience.
— Tomorrow we will reduce the march norm, — these were the Margrave's first words to the assembly. — We are approaching Pfeildorf. I do not want our soldiers to enter battle tired.
Olger Hawk paused, seemingly expecting comments. One of the engineers spoke first:
— But, Your Greate-Excellency, to my mind, I would rather have tired soldiers behind good fortifications than fresh ones in the middle of an open field.
— The city authorities, the local garrison, and volunteers from the burghers are already preparing positions for us. Any more questions, Herr Osmund?
— No, of course not, Your Greate-Excellency. I apologize for my impertinence.
— Then let us proceed to the next matter. I specifically waited for you to finish eating, gentlemen. Hermann, bring in that... thing.
One of the Margrave's adjutants brought in and placed a platter, covered with a black cloth, on the empty table. The young man yanked the cloth away with one hand. Lying on the platter was the severed head of the Chaos Dwarf. My trophy.