Chapter 38
I trudged through the burning city, putting more and more distance between myself and the iron rank of the Chosen. Haste was alien to the elite of Nurgle. Making my way through smoke-choked streets, I tried to figure out at least roughly where I was. I had to reach the evacuation point, if they were still operating.
The problem was, I didn't know how long I had been unconscious after the Hellcannon shell hit. A minute, ten, a full twenty? In the context of the current situation, those numbers meant a great deal. What if the city was already completely overrun? Mimicry, of course. I'd try to pass myself off as a cultist and then quietly slip away during Tamurkhan's army's march. However, I hoped it wouldn't come to that. Otherwise, my sense of smell would be in for some severe trials in the coming days.
The tremors and jitters had passed. I felt completely rejuvenated after the Hellcannon hit. I was even noticeably more energetic than before the battle. A frantic power seethed inside me. Hot, dark, suffocating. I wanted to plunge into battle as soon as possible. To tear and rend flesh.
— Too much tainted energy has seeped past our barriers, — Loom-Pia explained. — If this happens frequently, the restrictions and barriers will not hold.
I didn't want to think about the hypnotoad's words right now. I didn't want to think at all. In my ears, through the thunder of artillery and the roar of flames, I heard the screams of suffering souls. I had consumed quite a bit of magic before, but now everything was different. Chaos had touched me. For now, it was just a fleeting glance from the Ruinous Powers. But if this happened again, would my spirit be able to withstand it? I truly hoped so.
— One-two, heave! One-two, push!
I heard these voices while carving a path through the labyrinth of streets. Four cultists, wrapped in brownish-green robes, were trying to break into the house of some wealthy burgher. They were ramming a sturdy, iron-shod door with a section of a log. I tried to walk past them, but was called out:
— Hey, baldy! Help us! There's bound to be booze and food in there.
Apparently, they wanted to toast the Dark Gods as soon as possible, or perhaps the Chaos army's supply lines were just poorly organized. I tried to put on the most deranged voice possible and, pointing forward with my sword, bellowed:
— Ordered… to fight… that way! The Lord ordered it!
Such nonsense immediately killed the cultists' desire to develop the dialogue further. They continued to batter the door, while I pressed onward.
By the way, the Chaosites called me baldy. It seemed the Hellcannon flames hadn't been kind to my hair.
Using a similar behavioral algorithm, I managed to bypass two more groups of Chaosites. Similar robed cultists and Norscans who had begun looting. The latter also tried to recruit me. A tall warrior in greasy furs stepped into my path.
— Where is your warband?! — he asked menacingly, his voice like a snarl. — You will serve us!
— The Lord ordered… to attack! — I answered him and kept moving.
— Well, try it! — the Norscan grinned, raising his axe and a one-handed shield.
He had the advantage in defense; I had the advantage in reach.
I feigned an attack from the right toward the enemy's head. He covered himself with his shield, simultaneously moving in on me and swinging his axe. Without letting the blade hit the Norscan's shield, I ducked to the right, counter-attacking his armed hand. A deep, bloody gash opened there. The Norscan didn't continue the fight. He stepped aside with some respect, covering himself with the shield.
— The Gods are with you today, — the raider said, clearing my path.
I carefully slipped past, expecting a blow to the back, but it didn't come. The Northman returned to his comrades, who had just smashed open the door of another house.
So far, everything was going quite well. It seemed the Dawi-Zharr had finally let up on the city's bombardment. I had practically left the fire zone when I stumbled upon a group of beastmen.
Five Ungor spearmen led by a hulking goat-horn. He wasn't a Pestigor, just a regular beastman.
— Me-e-e-at! — the leader bleated.
With these ones, it seemed a peaceful parting wouldn't happen. They didn't care who I was: friend or foe. All that mattered was that I was alone and edible.
The Gor charged at me with axes in both hands. The Ungors followed their leader. One of them tried to throw a javelin.
— Do it! — I demanded of Loom-Pia, thrusting the enchanted dagger forward. — Cast!
No Imperial allies were nearby. Nothing held me back from using the Dawi-Zharr artifact.
Sorcerous runes flared orange-fire on the curved dagger. A smoky-ash whip extended from the blade. In an instant, it grew to a respectable length. I swung the blade as its previous owner once had. The whip lashed toward the Gor. A moment later, the smoky-ash grip tightened across the beastman's body.
I felt the dagger pull forward slightly. It felt like hooking a fish. Time to set the hook! With a sharp movement of my arm, I yanked the dagger back, simultaneously dodging the javelin throw.
The ash whip pulled the Gor toward me. The beast roared, floundering helplessly in the air. He flew about seven meters, crashing loudly into the wall of a house. Something clanged and cracked. I was there in an instant, plunging the longsword under the Gor's ribs and opening his throat with the dagger. The curved Dawi-Zharr blade sliced through flesh like butter. Blood gushed over me in a torrent.
Seeing how quickly their leader had croaked, the little Ungors lost all desire for further communication. They began a disorganized retreat. I managed to catch two of them, generously treating them to sword strikes. More blood for my sacrificial chalice.
I didn't chase the remaining Ungors, though my hands itched to do so. There was no time. I had to get out.
A few minutes later, I began to come across the corpses of militiamen, soldiers, and beastmen all mixed together on the streets. A good sign. You don't always celebrate seeing corpses. However, it seemed I was close to the evacuation points. This was where the enemies caught up with the fleeing people.
Soon I heard the voices of Imperials. The city walls loomed ahead. I had crossed Pfeildorf from end to end.
— Don't crowd! — someone shouted. — This way, this way!
— More are coming!
Arquebus shots rang out. Through the gunpowder smoke, I could barely make out a crowd of Imperials: militiamen, soldiers, artillerymen, and even civilians. Everyone was shoving, trying to squeeze into the city citadel located at the confluence of the rivers Soll and Reik. Excellent. The evacuation point should be there. There was only one problem…
How was I supposed to approach my own people in this state without catching a bullet?
Hiding the sorcerous dagger behind my back and lowering my sword, I slowly walked forward.
— There! — a cry rang out through the gunpowder smoke. — Another one's crawling!
A shot thundered.
A bullet struck the pavement not far from me.
Two thoughts formed in my head: scream that I'm friendly, or return to the corpses and try to loot normal clothes and at least clean my face a bit. I didn't want to go back. I might run into those same Chosen again. This time, they might not limit themselves to a simple word of advice.
— Don't fire! — I shouted, trying to hide the enchanted dagger under the remains of my clothes. — In Sigmar's name, don't fire! I'm one of you! I got caught in the fire!
— Get over here! — came a voice from behind the gunpowder smoke. — We'll see just what kind of "one of us" you are.
Somehow stuffing the dagger into my belt so the shimmering runes wouldn't be visible, I headed forward. Behind the backs of the crowd rushing into the citadel stood a screen of militiamen with firearms and arquebusier soldiers. Several men aimed their weapons at me at once. Considering my appearance, this could have ended badly, but Liandra came to my rescue. It seemed all of our people had already slipped into the citadel, but the elf had stayed to wait for me and recognized my voice immediately.
— Let him through, — she ordered in a sharp, even commanding tone.
— Hey! — a militiaman protested without turning around. — Who are you to tell us…
— Let him through! — barked another familiar voice.
Shoving aside the militiamen, Rudolf Hoch stepped out from the ranks of men. The nephew of the late Margrave was a sight to behold. His visor was raised, his face twisted with rage. The loss of his relative seemed to have taken a heavy toll on him.
— Jurgen, is that you?
— Yes, Lord Hoch, — I replied, trying to wipe the soot and grime from my face.
Simultaneously, I absorbed the remnants of rage from the blood chalice.
— Get into the citadel! — Rudolf waved me on. — Get out while the river can still be crossed.
I performed the young knight's order with pleasure. Together with Liandra, we trudged away from the dying Pfeildorf. The elf took my hand, pulling me forward and pushing through the panicking people. It seemed this long battle, for me, was finally over.
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INTERLUDE. Tamurkhan. The Maggot Lord.
Hail Tamurkhan, the Maggot Lord, Prophesied Son of the Great Kurgan, Herald of Desolation, Favored of Nurgle! Your time has come to sit upon the throne of Chaos!
The words of this prophecy were etched into the memory of the horde's leader.
Tamurkhan, seated upon the back of his beloved Toad Dragon, Bubebolos, felt both satisfaction and disappointment as he watched the fallen white-stone city sprawl before him.
The Southerners had managed to give his army an almost worthy fight. Almost… As soon as the Chosen warriors, giants, mammoths, and Toad Dragons passed the first rampart, the army of Southern weaklings crumbled. Ogres and even Night Goblins had caused more problems. Perhaps Tamurkhan had simply grown too strong during his previous trials.
Only a few of the Southerners' sorcerers had tried to resist until the very end, and a commander on a flying beast had wanted to reach the Maggot Lord, but the foolish Kayzk the Befouled hadn't let him do it. Or perhaps it wasn't foolishness at all? What if the Fimir warlock wanted more glory for himself?
Tamurkhan dismissed these thoughts. It didn't matter. The city had fallen. The prophecy would be fulfilled. The time had come for the Maggot Lord to ascend to the halls of Grandfather Nurgle. To gain power, immortality, eternal glory. Kayzk was just a sorcerer. Let him take the head of that pathetic little lordling. Endless conquests awaited Tamurkhan!
— Forward! — the Maggot Lord commanded, pointing his massive axe toward the city.
— Orrrr… Arkrrr! — Kayzk the Befouled, leader of the Rot Knights, supported his master.
Tamurkhan set out into the city, accompanied by Chosen warriors, Chaos Knights, and Exalted Plaguebearers. Bubebolos, spitting out clumps of green slime, made his way through the captured Southern fortifications, trampling the corpses of the defenders. Chaos Hounds scattered in fear before the monster. Beastmen hurried to get out of the way and fell prostrate before the marching general. Local cultists blew horns, beat drums, and sang various hymns.
— Amusing, — Tamurkhan thought.
The local folk seemed weak, but they worshipped him in funny and convoluted ways. Perhaps that was how the Grandfather himself felt, watching mortals attempt to honor his divine person. Soon Tamurkhan would be with him again. He would return to the beautiful Plague Garden where he had once grown up and spent his childhood. Long had his return home been, but the reward would be great.
Bubebolos squeezed with difficulty through one of the breaches in the wall. The street further on was too narrow for the Toad Dragon. Tamurkhan climbed out of the saddle and, like a child on an ice slide, slid down the monster's back and neck. During this, the innards of the host body squelched pleasantly.
Tamurkhan turned to the Toad Dragon, slapped it on the snout, and commanded:
— Sit. Wait.
Bubebolos exhaled a cloud of thick, cloying steam. A long white worm crawled out of the beast's wide nose, but the Toad Dragon didn't let it get far. He caught it with a long tongue and crunched it down.
Tamurkhan's retinue tried to squeeze through the breach past the Toad Dragon, but the Maggot Lord didn't wait for them. He continued his path alone. Around him lay the city that had appeared to Tamurkhan in a dream many months ago. The city of Magnus the Pious—the Southern leader who had defeated Everchosen Asavar Kul hundreds of years ago. The one guided by all the gods had lost, but the Favored of Nurgle would avenge his defeat.
— Look upon me! — Tamurkhan roared, raising his terrible axe above his head.
From all sides, Norscans, cultists, and beastmen turned their faces toward him, falling prostrate. However, it was not to them that Tamurkhan told to look upon him. The Maggot Lord was calling out to the Chaos Gods themselves. He demanded they witness his victory.
Tamurkhan's Ogre body was still strong, continuing its cycle of transformations, but gradually the worms and larvae would undermine it. Wounds would accumulate. Then a new host would have to be found. But for now, the Lord was content. The earth shook under every step of his trophy body. Pus and softened fat splashed under the greenish skin.
"Search for a new host…" the Maggot Lord thought and chuckled with a grunting sound at his own thoughts.
He wouldn't need a new host anymore. He would become a Daemon Prince. An exalted entity, more independent of flesh and bone. Valkia the Bloody, Azazel, Be'lakor—soon there would be an addition to their ranks.
Tamurkhan walked forward, searching for signs of his ascension. Nothing yet. Perhaps the gods wished to do everything in a particularly significant place. The Maggot Lord soon noticed a suitable one. It was a temple of a weak Southern god. Sigmar, Zigma, or whatever his name was. With the name of this petty god on their lips, the people of the Empire fought and died. To him they called in vain, praying for salvation.
Tamurkhan climbed the temple steps, opening the heavy door with a single movement of his mighty hand. Someone had already been inside. Near the altar itself, Tamurkhan noticed a handful of cultists who were hanging the corpse of a priest with spilled guts onto a statue of Sigmar. Good.
A mixture of fear and admiration seized the followers who saw the Maggot Lord. They abandoned all their business, leaving even the trophies in the form of golden temple regalia. Why need money when the one who can grant Nurgle's priceless blessings is before you? The cultists collapsed onto the floor, kissing the dirt and rust on Tamurkhan's metal-shod boots, whispering some nonsense.
— That's enough, — Tamurkhan said in a raspy voice. — Go. Loot something else. And close the door.
In the cultists, the need to obey the order and the desire to contemplate the glory of Nurgle's champion for as long as possible fought for a while. Eventually, they left, closing the temple doors.
Tamurkhan slowly approached the desecrated altar. He glanced over the blood- and mud-smeared frescoes. He listened to the pleasant buzzing of flies already spreading through the temple. They swarmed the intestines protruding from the wound in the priest's abdomen. They were laying eggs there so larvae would hatch. The cycle of life, pleasing to Nurgle, continued.
Tamurkhan set aside his battle-axe, leaning it against one of the temple pews. The Maggot Lord raised his mighty arms, once belonging to an Ogre tribe tyrant, toward the high ceiling.
— I am ready! — the Favored of Nurgle announced, clenching his fists. — Do it! I have waited for this!
Nothing happened.
Seconds passed, flies buzzed, and the warriors of the horde looted the city. Everything went its course, but for some reason, the main event did not happen.
— Do it! — Tamurkhan repeated, lowering and then raising his arms again. — The prophecy is fulfilled! I have conquered the city of Magnus! I have trampled it into the dirt! I am the leader and conqueror! Bestow your blessings upon me!
Nothing happened.
Tamurkhan was in confusion. He knew the gods loved all sorts of jokes, playing cruel games with their mortal pawns. Но Grandfather… Nurgle was not like that. The Lord of Plague had nurtured his favorite for a great destiny and would not abandon him. Grandfather had a bet with the other gods. Tamurkhan had fulfilled the conditions and should be rewarded. He was not some pathetic pawn to be simply discarded.
— Do it! — Tamurkhan roared with the full power of Ogre lungs, coughing up bile and slime. — I am here! Look upon me! Come to me!
Nothing happened.
Tamurkhan was alone in the empty temple, save for the corpse and the flies.
A terrible rage, uncharacteristic of Nurgle worshippers, seized the Maggot Lord. Grabbing his massive axe, he began smashing everything in his path. Pews, statues, and other Southern junk. Splinters and sparks flew, struck from the stones.
— Why!? — Tamurkhan bellowed. — Why are you silent!? Even you, Nurgle!?
Tamurkhan himself didn't know how long his furious madness lasted. He had shattered and hacked to pieces almost everything in the temple, yet still received no answer. Then the Maggot Lord felt another presence, but it was not the gods. Turning around, Tamurkhan saw the silent figure of Sayl the Faithless.
— Why do they not answer me?! — Tamurkhan thundered, addressing the sorcerer. — I have won the victory! I have given Magnus's city to Nurgle! It will be desolated and defiled tonight!
In response, the sorcerer held something out to Tamurkhan. A small, shiny object. It seemed to be… a plate. Tamurkhan turned it over in his huge palm. On one side of the plate was depicted a comet with two tails, and on the other, a city bathed in sunlight. The very city they had captured today.
— Read the inscription, my lord, — Sayl spoke calmly and even politely.
— Pfa… — Tamurkhan frowned, not particularly skilled in the Southerners' literacy. — Pfeil… Praf… dor…
— Pfeildorf, — Sayl finished for him. — That is the name of this city. And Magnus was born in Nuln. It is Nuln we must conquer.
— Nuln… — Tamurkhan sighed with a mixture of disappointment and relief. — I see…
Just the wrong city. Damn Empire! Why are there so many similar cities here with white stone walls?
Tamurkhan tossed the plate into the pile of debris left from the temple's interior. Then the Maggot Lord plopped down, sitting on the floor, and demanded:
— Go. I am tired. I shall sleep.