WH-Warhammer Online-Age of Reckoning 02(R)-Dark Storm Gathering Read online

  She turned to address the entire hall.

  ‘The need for swiftness has always been on my mind,’ she said. ‘It is clear now that all things are moving, and we must not be left behind. Our preparations and deliberations have been essential, but they are now concluded. The march will begin before the day is out, and the Empire of Men no longer stands alone. Karl Franz has charged us with bolstering the defence of Lord Heinrich’s lands to the north, sorely tested by revolt and invasion. That is where the hammer will fall, and that is where we shall make our counter-thrust. Nothing, not the blades of the druchii nor the machinations of the Dark Gods can stop it. At long last we ride to war, and to the test of arms. Let no fresh division hamper our joint destiny.’

  She let her gaze pass over the assembled throng. The tide of murmuring bitterness had ceased, and the grizzled Reiksguard soldiers looked slightly less belligerent. Helborg nodded with approval.

  ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘The Emperor will be heartened by these tidings. When you ride, the Reiksguard will be with you. The time has come to end the long retreat, and bring the battle to the enemy at last. I will leave you now. My own paths take me to the east once more. But one day, Sigmar willing, I will fight by your side, and show you in person what steel we still possess. Until then, farewell, and I will look for tidings from the north.’

  He bowed once more, and the delegation withdrew. Artheris watched them leave with satisfaction. Relief flooded through her. The first test had been passed. Now the real trials would begin.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alexander struggled against his captors’ grip, but it was no good. The warriors remained implacable, forcing him onwards. He was pushed into a vast chamber at the heart of the temple. It was bathed in a baleful red light. Huge stone buttresses soared upwards towards a distant domed ceiling. The wide circular floor was pitted with channels filled with a strange, oily liquid. Flames were everywhere in braziers and iron bowls. Brass lanterns were suspended on mighty chains from the roof. Once, the symbols of Sigmar had adorned the place, carved into the massive stone walls by scores of patient artisans. Now they were all defaced, daubed with the crude and debauched signs of Chaos.

  Around the edges of the chamber, rows of cowled figures chanted and swayed in unison. The noise and heat were deafening. When they saw Alexander enter, a shiver of anticipation seemed to pass through the cultists’ ranks. Everything in the chamber indicated that some dark purpose was at last coming to fruition.

  Alexander didn’t need to guess the object of their adulation. In the centre of the circular space, the high altar of Sigmar had been transformed into a scene of horror. Instead of the prayers of the pious echoing calmly by candlelight, the maniacal spells of the damned were animating strange forces. A pulsing ball of flame, eerily suspended in the air, rolled and spat over the high table itself. The stone altar was charred and blackened from the proximity. As the ball span, flames licked and flickered outward, scorching everything they touched. While Alexander watched, a stream of fiery matter suddenly lurched outwards and caught a genuflecting worshipper. The cultist was quickly doused in fire. The man lurched backwards, clawing at his face. Even his screams failed to make much dent in the echoing wall of noise around them.

  That was not the worst of it. Deep within the ball of fire, something stirred. Like a huge, perverted infant, a dark shape was coiled within the sheen of heat, twitching and reaching out as if asleep. It was hard to make out exactly what shape it was, but in the very centre of the roaring furnace, two eyes could be clearly seen. They were twin points of pure malice, pure spite, pure intelligence. Without needing to see any more, Alexander knew what was happening. When that unnatural child came of age, all hope was gone.

  Abruptly, the warriors stopped propelling him forward. Alexander was left hanging in their steely embrace several yards before the suspended inferno. At such a distance he could feel his flesh tighten and begin to burn. He was used to flame, but this was of another order.

  ‘I trust you don’t regret your decision yet, Herr Mortivar?’ cried a mocking voice from above, still using Alexander’s assumed name.

  Shakily, Alexander looked up. Rachsdorf stood on a balcony halfway up the far wall of the chamber. He was flanked by more of the dark-armoured warriors. When the cowled figures noticed their master, the already fevered chanting became even more shrill and febrile.

  ‘This is madness, Rachsdorf!’ yelled Alexander. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re doing! You can’t control this! It will kill you all!’

  Rachsdorf laughed. It was a stretched, grating sound. It was as if he was on the brink of a nervous collapse, and wished to banish his fear through arrogance. Even in the midst of his own terror, Alexander could sense the panic within the traitor.

  ‘Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,’ crowed Rachsdorf. ‘This work has been many months in the preparation. For long years the priests of Sigmar have been corrupted, one by one, and all for this one great purpose. In a dozen hidden places, the spells of the faithful have been slowly bringing it about. Now all have mustered here, the heart of the furnace. Think of the irony, Bright wizard! The holy shrine of Sigmar, turned into the vessel for the damnation of the Empire!’

  Rachsdorf’s eyes blazed with an unnatural illumination. At the mention of the Empire’s damnation, shrieks of delight and mockery rose from the corrupted priests. Their voices had become less than human. Some sounded like the squawks of birds or the growls of animals. The corruption ran deep.

  ‘Listen to me, Rachsdorf!’ cried Alexander. ‘I don’t care what you think you know. This creature brings nothing but death. It will feast on your soul before all others. Stop this foolishness before it’s too late. Your life may be forfeit, but your soul may yet be saved.’

  Rachsdorf clutched the handrail of the balcony tightly, his amusement switching to fury in the blink of an eye.

  ‘False snake of the Empire,’ the sorcerer spat, the veins on his temples bulging. ‘You know nothing of my powers! I am the master of the dark arts. I, Jurgen von Rachsdorf! You should have abased yourself before me when you had the chance. Now your death will only hasten the coming of the Great Master, the Architect of Fate!’

  Alexander looked around him quickly. There were maybe a hundred cultists clustered around the altar. His staff was gone. For the first time in his life, he began to seriously entertain the prospect of his own demise.

  And yet, there was fire all about. Unholy fire it might be, but it still drew itself towards him. He looked up at Rachsdorf, his expression defiant.

  ‘I would pity you, traitor, if your folly were less dangerous,’ said Alexander coldly. ‘Your delusion will be your undoing, whether at my hand or those who come after me. Even if I could abase myself and save my life, I’d not do it. I’d rather die faithful than live a traitor!’

  Alexander spat the final words out with as much venom as he could muster. It had the desired effect. Rachsdorf’s pale face blushed crimson with rage.

  ‘Kill him!’ he screamed. ‘Sacrifice the apostate to He Who Comes!’

  The Chaos warriors immediately began to drag Alexander towards the altar. It was the moment he had been waiting for. His speech was not just for effect. He had used his anger to mask a gathering of power. Even without his staff, he was able to suck the vital energy of the flames to himself. The Wind of Aqshy surged amidst the corruption like a shaft of clear air in a storm.

  ‘Taal guide me!’ he cried, letting the pent-up power of fire burst from his hands. Twin balls of energy burst outwards. The two guards were smashed backwards. They slammed into the milling crowd, knocking cultists in all directions.

  Alexander span around, kindling fresh fire in his hands. With a cry of rage, he hurled more bolts after the prone warriors. One was knocked from his feet, tumbling into a vial of crimson flame. It kindled quickly, and a strangled cry of agony broke his eerie silence.

  The other warrior came at Alexander, hands raised. The wizard pumped streams of smoking flame at him.
His hands moved surely. The power of Aqshy was running through him powerfully now. It was as if he was merely a conduit for the rage of the fire around him. The streams smashed into the dark metal of the warrior’s breastplate. The dark figure stumbled in his advance, arms flailing. Alexander felt the thrill of battle rise within him. The bellowing crowd around him made no difference. The arcs of fire kept them at bay.

  Suddenly, he felt the clutch of darkness around his heart once more. Even in the middle of the furnace, an unnatural chill struck hard. He looked up. Rachsdorf had raised his staff, and beams of dark magic curled around it. In Rachsdorf’s other hand, Alexander recognised his own staff.

  ‘Now who’s the fool, Mortivar?’ he screamed. ‘I have your staff! This placed is doused with my magic. You cannot prevail!’

  Rachsdorf placed his iron staff across Alexander’s, and smashed them together. A streak of pure agony passed through the Bright wizard’s spine. With a cry of anguish, he crumpled to the floor. Hands shaking, he tried to rise. A spinning ball of flame materialised in his hands, and he hurled it upwards. It exploded against the balcony harmlessly. The warriors were on their feet once more. One loomed over him darkly, arms extended towards his throat. Alexander looked up at the blank iron visor, and smiled grimly.

  ‘Rot in torment!’ he hissed, and unleashed a blistering pulse of vermillion energy from his fingers.

  The warrior screamed, an unearthly wail which echoed around the wide chamber. The agonised figure stumbled over Alexander, blundering into the crowd of cultists, clawing at his face. Seeing his chance, the Bright wizard dragged himself back towards the corridor and away from the altar. Pain coursed through him. The archway was just yards away. But then a heavy hand seized his shoulder. He was hauled back. Though the first warrior lay prone from his injuries, the other was still alive.

  Alexander struggled frantically against his grip. He could feel himself weakening. Fresh fire welled up within him, but was extinguished by a new clash of Rachsdorf’s staffs. A torrent of abuse rained down from the balcony. The sorcerer was apoplectic with rage and fear. Alexander didn’t look up. The power of Chaos was pulling at him, sapping his strength with every second. A dull roar emerged from the ball of fire over the altar. The presence within was stirring, sensing the struggle. It reached out for Alexander, and its aura fell on him like iron.

  Alexander gazed upwards weakly, feeling his strength giving out. The eyes in the fire stared back at him, two half-formed orbs of hatred and cruelty. His energy finally deserted him, and the fire in his soul went out.

  ‘Enough of this!’ cried Rachsdorf, his voice breaking under the strain. ‘Throw him into the fire! Kill him!’

  Alexander fought with all his remaining strength, but it was not enough. The cultists surged forward, and the remaining warrior held him tight. He was pushed ever closer towards the altar. The flames licked at his face. He closed his eyes, feeling the heat begin to absorb him. A voice whispered something in the very heart of the fire, something seductive, something awful.

  The snap of a pistol firing rang out across the chamber. The iron grip released him. Alexander looked up. Suddenly, there was hope.

  Annika strode into the chamber. With cool certainty, she raised the pistol again. She had two shots left. The Chaos warrior holding the wizard had been dispatched, and the raving sorcerer on the balcony was her next target. The robed figure screamed something incoherent, and raised his dark staff. There was a shimmer in the lurid air, and a web of shadow seemed to burst from the sorcerer’s vantage point. Annika thrust her blessed icon of Sigmar into the path of the dark magic, and it brushed harmlessly past her. She felt a faint tremor of nausea, and then nothing. Her faith was indomitable, and it would take more than cheap sorcery to penetrate her defences.

  Annika made a quick calculation, raised her pistol and fired up at the balcony. A yell of pain came from above, and the body of the sorcerer bent double. Annika smiled in satisfaction. They were no ordinary bullets. Silver-tipped and wound about with prayers of benediction, they were the finest tools in her armoury. The sorcerer withdrew, clutching his chest in agony.

  The witch hunter spun around. The situation was still dangerous. The cultists had recovered from their surprise and had started advancing. The Chaos warrior and the Imperial wizard lay unmoving on the floor. Dieter was at her side, and launched himself into the oncoming crowd. His sword swung in mighty strokes against the clutching hands of the cultists, spraying blood and gore high into the air. His expression, locked within his favoured open-faced helmet, was a model of contemptuous hatred. All heresy disgusted him, but the scale of sacrilege with a temple of Sigmar had driven him into a frenzy of rage.

  Annika shoved her pistol back into its holster and drew her short sword. A cultist raced towards her, eyes wild, screaming some unintelligible curse. She eviscerated him coldly, flickering her blade with savage speed through his ragged robes before savagely punching him aside. He slumped to the floor, his chest pumping blood onto the stone. Another lurched at her, and was equally quickly despatched.

  To her left, Dieter surged through the throng. He looked like an bronze-clad giant wading through a sea of cultists. His sword hammered down with crunching efficiency, splintering bone and slicing through flesh.

  ‘Come with me,’ cried Annika, punching a cultist away from her and plunging her sword into his neck as he fell. ‘The wizard!’

  Dieter nodded grimly, and pushed forward towards the altar. Annika cut her way through the milling crowd. The cultists came onward heedlessly. They were haphazard, but there were dozens of them. Slowly, laboriously, Annika and Dieter fought their way to the spinning ball of fire. Even from several yards away, the heat and stench of the Chaos-born flames were thick and heavy. Dieter smashed his gauntlet into the melee, sending several cultists slamming into each other. He reached the body of the wizard and turned around to face the crowd, eyes blazing. Grateful for his protection, Annika withdrew from the fighting, knelt down and placed a hand on the Bright wizard’s shoulder.

  ‘Can you walk?’ she hissed.

  Alexander looked at her blearily. His face was badly burned, and he looked exhausted.

  ‘He is coming…’ he breathed.

  Annika looked at the wizard with concern. His senses had been taken from him. Taking a deep breath, she threaded her arm under his and laboriously hauled him to his feet. He seemed to recover himself a little, and stood shakily. Cultists continued to press forward, but Dieter held them back with contemptuous ease.

  ‘We must get you out,’ said Annika sharply.

  The Bright wizard shook his head.

  ‘No time!’ he hissed. ‘He is coming!’

  Alexander stared at the inferno behind her. Annika turned to look at the spinning orb. It was beginning to pulse with a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat growing in strength. She felt the horror emanating from it. It was a rift in the world, a portal into the realm of madness and flux. She had seen such things before. The wizard was right. If they didn’t destroy the abomination now, they might never have another chance. She drew a phial of holy water from her jerkin and steeled herself for the challenge.

  ‘Can you cast?’ she snapped at Alexander. ‘Between the two of us…’

  The Bright wizard nodded. He was coming to his senses, standing more steadily.

  ‘We need to do it now,’ Alexander said, staring grimly at the rapidly expanding sphere.

  Annika drew the phial back, and hurled it with all her strength into the heart of the inferno. It exploded in a burst of blinding light. Ripples travelled around the spinning surface of the sphere, and its surface buckled.

  ‘Foul creature of Chaos!’ she cried, taking the silver icon of the twin-tailed comet from around her neck and striding forward with it held high. ‘Go back to the realm that spawned you!’

  The orb, bereft of the chanting support of the cultists, shimmered and flickered in and out of solidity. Annika kept up the barrage, holding the icon high and uttering litanies of exorc
ism. A strange, muffled wail leaked from the tortured sphere. Whatever was within it seemed able to suffer pain.

  Annika felt a thrill of power course through her. The icon blazed in her palm, casting glittering illumination in all directions. She cared nothing for the crowd trying to claw their way past Dieter. He would ensure none got through. Her only focus was the horror before her and the power of her deity coursing through her veins.

  Gradually, the vortex of swirling flame began to subside, to waver and shudder like a candle flame in the wind. As she poured scorn and defiance on the weakening presence before her, Annika noticed the wizard raise his own hands high. His breathing was heavy and ragged, his robes torn, but he was bringing something into being. She sensed the power of it before she saw it. A pall of thick smoke began to rise from his palms. It was as dark as pitch and as cloying as oil. Speaking words of power softly, the wizard gently spun more of it into life. Annika concentrated on the scene ahead, but could feel the strange power of the wizard working beside her

  With a final cry, he hurled a throbbing mass of smoke into the heart of the inferno. It immediately spread outwards, masking the intense heat, damping and crushing the raging torrents of fire. The wail emanated once more, but was now diminished and feeble. The assault was driving it back, pushing its essence out of the real world and back into nothingness. The wizard kept up a relentless stream of dampening, strangling smoke. Annika felt her voice cracking, but maintained the rites of exorcism. Even as her strength began to ebb, she could feel the withdrawal of the daemonic presence. The sphere of fire shuddered, blanched, and suddenly imploded. With a rush of heated air and a clap like thunder, the summoning dissolved into itself and dissipated in a cloud of white-hot sparks.

  Both Annika and the wizard were knocked off their feet. Annika cracked her head heavily against the rough floor. She felt blood rise in her mouth, and her vision rocked. Blearily, she felt hands roughly grab her, and caught the blurred impression of a hate-filled face before her.