Sudobaal began to mouth an incantation and started to turn towards the massive warrior. In that second, he saw the axe descending towards his skull, and he recoiled backwards in shock. Instinctively, he spat a word in the language of Chaos, and a smoky black, insubstantial, clawed hand caught the axe before it struck. Hroth growled in anger, and Sudobaal scrambled backwards, putting some distance between the two. An instant later, the sorcerous claw disappeared.
Sudobaal lowered his staff, and crackling blue flames burst towards Hroth. The warrior had sensed the sorcerers move, and had already bunched his muscles to spring, but he was too slow. The flames engulfed him as he tried to roll to the side, throwing him backwards to smash against the smooth stone wall. He fell to the ground, his body smouldering, his flesh singed and his armour blackened. He snarled with hatred and anger.
Sudobaal drew the power of Chaos into him, drawing in the magic that leaked from the casket in the next room and hung in the air. He felt it building within him, and he rejoiced in the feeling. Rarely had he felt such power, and now he would destroy Hroth with it, destroy him utterly and send him screaming into the Realms of Chaos, there to be tortured until the end of time. How dare the fool strike out at him?
His golden eyes turned black as the power in him built, and the air around him was filled with electricity. The blue flames on his staff roared, filling the room with its cold light. The blue flames flowed down over his arms and shoulders, flickering down across his body, and up over his face and hood. Within moments, his whole body was ablaze. He opened his mouth, and the flames descended down into lungs and stomach, suffusing him completely.
'How could you ever have hoped to best me?' the blazing figure questioned. 'You would never have stood a chance against my magics.'
The smouldering figure of Hroth rolled to his feet. His eyes burned too, but with fires hot and angry, seeming at odds with the cold blue flames that covered the sorcerer. 'Magic is for weaklings who cannot wield a blade, and lack the courage to face their enemy face to face, runt,' he snarled.
'Is that right?' the sorcerer chuckled. 'So what does that make you, if you are bested by a magic-wielding weakling?'
'You will never best me, Sudobaal. I'll have your soul,' snarled the Khorne champion, readying himself to leap at the sorcerer.
'Goodbye, champion,' whispered Sudobaal, and unleashed the power contained within him. The champion leapt forwards, but was not halfway across the cavern when the power struck him. It should have ripped through his flesh, rending it from his bones before sending him screaming into the Realms of Chaos, but the blue flames washed over him without touching him at all, passing around him and never getting within an inch of his flesh. Hroth could feel the heat and power of the spell that should have ended him, but it did not touch him.
With a gasp, the sorcerer fell back. Hroth emerged from the blast unscathed, but he took only two steps before he dropped to his knees, hissing in pain. His massive axe clanged to the stone floor, and his hands clawed at his neck. The flesh was bulging strangely, as if something within was struggling to escape. His head twitched to the side, and a series of brass spikes suddenly ripped through his flesh from within. Blood poured down the inside of his armour as the spikes continued to push out from within his neck, followed by a heavy metal ring. Finally, the pain gone, Hroth stood. Sudobaal crouched on the floor, staring in disbelief.
Hroth reached up a hand to touch the spiked collar that had emerged from within his flesh to encircle his neck. Then he grinned, and turned his burning eyes towards Sudobaal with a shrug.
'A collar of Khorne.' gasped the sorcerer. Bestowed by the Blood God upon some of its favoured daemons, the collar of Khorne was a powerful artefact that protected the wearer from harmful magic.
In desperation, Sudobaal spat a curse at Hroth, and a multitude of black, smoky figures appeared around the champion of Khorne, their red eyes filled with hatred. They reached towards the champion with long clawed hands to claim his soul, but they could not touch him, and recoiled from him in pain. He swatted at them with his axe as he strode towards the sorcerer, and their insubstantial forms dissipated into the air.
Sudobaal raised his staff once more, and lightning crackled around its tip, but Hroth smashed it aside with a kick. He lifted the sorcerer into the air, holding him around the neck. Holding him up to his eyes, the black robed figure's dangling feet some two feet off the ground, Hroth smiled evilly. 'You're in some trouble now, sorcerer,' he snarled.
Hroth hurled the sorcerer across the room, and he smashed into the wall before sliding to a heap on the ground. The Khorne champion walked to the crumpled figure and lifted him once again by the throat. 'I will have your soul,' he added, before hurling him across the room once again. Sudobaal slammed into the wall on the other side of the cavern.
'I don't want to kill you,' said Hroth as he walked back towards the broken form of the sorcerer, who was whimpering, 'at least not just yet.' He turned towards the bowl-shaped room, still filled with frantically swirling smoke and coiling energies.
'What happens when I walk through there? Hmm? What happens?' he asked, kicking the sorcerer when he did not answer immediately. Sudobaal coughed up blood, spitting it out onto the floor.
'It is
my
destiny, you Khazag bastard,' the sorcerer managed. Hroth chuckled.
'Well, I cannot say that you don't have spirit, sorcerer. 'You are lying there pathetic and bloody, and yet still you insult me.'
'I will kill you.' whispered the sorcerer, spluttering blood.
'No, you will not, Sudobaal. No longer will
I
be the dog. From now on,
I
am the master here, and I
will
have your soul. Now, I am going through into that room and claiming what is mine.'
Leaving the broken sorcerer on the floor, Hroth stepped to the entrance of the bowl-shaped room. He turned, spat at the broken sorcerer, and stepped into the Realm of Chaos.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Stefan von Kessel
reeled from the unexpected blow. Placing a hand to his jaw, he looked into the furious eyes of the reiksmarshal. He opened and closed his mouth, his jaw clicking alarmingly. 'Nice punch.' he muttered.
'You are damn lucky that's all I've done. You are a damn fool, von Kessel. I cannot believe you disobeyed my order.' Stefan made to say something, but the enraged knight cut him off. 'My word is the word of the Emperor, damn it! Would you disobey a direct order from the Emperor Magnus? Answer me!'
'Sir, I felt these were... extreme circumstances.'
'You have no idea what you have done, do you?'
'Sir, Gruber is a traitor! How could I let that pass? An elector count, one of the twelve most trusted men of the Empire, and he has betrayed us!'
'Aye, so you say. Off the back of one letter, you have led your army for two weeks across the Empire, disobeying a direct order.'
'But sir... I feared the future of Ostermark would be - '
'I don't give a damn about the future of Ostermark!' raged the reiksmarshal, interrupting the captain. 'All I give a damn about is the Empire as a
whole
.
What good is Ostermark if the rest of the Empire crumbles around it?'
'I did what I thought was best for the Empire!'
'No, you didn't bloody think at all. Your judgement has been clouded by your anger, von Kessel. All you are thinking about is your damn grandfather and that fat wretch, Gruber! Not only did you disobey my order, I thought you might have had the sense to at least hold the ground that Gruber himself was meant to hold! But no, you have been traipsing across the Empire, leaving Ostland undefended. If the forces of Chaos return and advance through Ostland, there will be no one to defend it - they could march straight through to Talabheim and the heart of the Empire.'
'Talabheim? That great city has never fallen.'
'No it hasn't, but there are barely enough men in Talabheim to man the inner walls, let alone the massive outer walls, you fool,' the reiksmarshal said. 'If the forces of Chaos do march on Talabheim, it will be on your head, von Kessel.' The older man sighed wearily. 'If you are right, the Empire is indeed in peril from within. Damn it.' Trenkenhoff was silent for a moment, his brow knotted in concern.
'Damn it,' he said again. 'Fine, I'll give you three days. Learn the truth in that time, and we will act accordingly. If you do not, you will be leading your army back into Ostland, and I pray you will not be too late.' Von Kessel still had a defiant look in his eyes, and his cheeks were flushed.
'Have your messages to Gruber got through, sir? The messages telling him to halt his retreat eastwards?'
'Damned if I know. I haven't had any response from him. My outriders have not yet returned, and the cowardly dog still runs. I don't know what he is playing at, honestly I don't. Maybe it's just the plague that is bringing Ostland, Ostermark and now Talabecland to their knees that he is fleeing from. I don't know.'
Stefan frowned. 'Fleeing the plague? Maybe - '
'Three days, von Kessel. Find your man within three days. I'll hold the army here for that time. Heaven knows the local militia could use the aid rooting out the foul creatures along the south banks of the river. Leave now.'
Stefan was still smarting from the rebuke he had received from the reiksmarshal, even now, two days after the incident. He pushed all thoughts of the episode out of his mind, as his most skilled scout Wilhelm returned, running down the steep slope through the trees. Breathing hard, he brought himself to a halt before the captain.
'Well?' said Stefan. 'Is it there?'
'Aye it is sir. Looks occupied as well. Fresh wood piled up outside the chapel doors.'
'Good. How far?'
'Not far, a half hour, elector.'
'Don't call me that,' snapped Stefan, and he kicked his steed forwards. The soldiers of Ostermark had begun to call him elector a week earlier, much to his horror. They had heard that Gruber had betrayed the Empire, and had decided amongst themselves that once the treacherous noble was deposed that the rightful heir to the position was Stefan. He had tried to dissuade them from this line of thinking, but it had proven to have no effect.
The others in his party followed the lead of their captain and kicked their steeds on up the rocky road winding into the fir-covered hills. A light snow began to fall, the soft flakes landing on Stefan's shoulders, and he pulled his cloak around him more tightly.
A dozen men rode behind him. All were competent horsemen, barring Albrecht, who hated riding. 'Horses, they don't like me,' he had stated the previous day, and Stefan had to agree with the sergeant. Nevertheless, he had flat-out refused to be left behind, despite the mutual dislike he had with their steeds. One of the horses had tried to bite Albrecht's horse earlier that day, and the mare had bucked, throwing the older sergeant to the ground. He swore that the horses had been laughing at him.
Stefan's face darkened as he approached the chapel. The mood of the journey was grim, the soldiers travelling in silence. The captain was preparing himself for the news he would hear, the truth that he longed and dreaded to hear. Night was setting in as they approached the long-abandoned chapel. Smoke drifted from the chimney of the small building attached to the rear of the retreat. The snows had settled around a foot deep, and the breath of the horses and men steamed before them.
As they approached the chapel, they did not notice the dark figures that flitted amongst the trees.
Albrecht's horse snorted, its ears pulled back close to its head, and he swore at it.
The doors to the chapel were opened, and a figure stepped into view. He was a giant, barrel-chested man. A heavy pendant hung around his neck - a twin-tailed comet, Stefan noticed with some relief. His head was completely shaved, his stony face was square, and his neck was almost non-existent - he looked like a born fighter. His nose looked as if it had been broken several times, and badly set. In his big hands he clasped a massive two-handed hammer, and he eyed the riders warily. He looked more like a soldier than a priest, but then the priests of Sigmar were well-trained warriors, as was fitting for a warrior god.
'Come any closer and feel the
wrath of Sigmar
, you curs.' he boomed, his voice deep and full of authority. Stefan noted that a pair of crossbows was aimed at him from the windows of the chapel, poking through the slightly opened shutters.
'Not a very warm welcome from a priest.' remarked Albrecht. Stefan threw him a dark look.
'Don't give me none of that, damn you, and you can tell Gruber that he will die a painful death by my hand one day soon. Away with you, lapdogs of Chaos!'
'We do not come from the treacherous count. I am Stefan von Kessel.' he called out. The priest squinted at him suspiciously, and then his eyes widened. He waved to the men to lower their crossbows.
'Von Kessel! Thank Sigmar! Come in, you must be frozen. I am Gunthar.' He ushered Stefan inside the chapel. 'All of you, come in. There is a small stable around the back for your steeds. There is not a lot of room in the chapel, but there is room enough for you all. Come in! Come.' he said, slapping Stefan on the back - almost knocking him off his feet with the force of the blow. Stefan felt vaguely that he had met the priest before, but could not place him.
'I thought that you were Gruber's lackeys, come here to finish me off. Thank Sigmar they have not tracked me down yet. They will, have no doubt of that. I should have moved on, left this place. I have been here for too long, but I could not leave just yet, for fear that you would arrive, only to find this place abandoned. I talk too much. There is a hot broth cooking. Come.'
The chapel was old, and had been abandoned for many years. Still, the priest had clearly worked hard to make the place clean, for the floors were freshly swept. It was austere, as was usual for places of worship for Sigmar, and the windows were shuttered. The roof was high, the rafters exposed and filled with cobwebs. There were a couple of holes in the roof that had been roughly patched over, and a slight sprinkling of snow drifted down from them. Two men were inside the chapel, although on second glance Stefan saw that one of them was little more than a boy.