LordofUzkulak’s fanfics

Attenotes pulled up his collar and pulled out his cheeks to ward off the cold.  He hated it on this ice ball and the honour of serving the Sky Faeroes was starting to wear off.  This wasn’t war, at least not like he’d been trained for or as the poets sang.  At least so far nothing of worth had been spent he reflected looking on the cavorting horde of tzaangors with a scowl.

“Disgusting aren’t they,” sneered Rhamoses, his attendant.

“They’re only good for dying, subhuman scum,” agreed Attenotes, glancing at Rhamoses out of the corner of his eye.  The lion faced mutant made his skin crawl, but at least he and the other beastman conscripts in the armies of Xandria were civilised, unlike the blue, half naked savages massing for the next charge.  Attenotes turned his attention from them to the fortress beyond the blood-drenched snow drifts.

The ugly slab of buttresses reared out of the ice, half buried in a rocky bluff that sat at the foot of a mountain.  It had not been built, at least not as a fortress.  Long ago in some forgotten battle above this nameless world it had been part of a frigate of the Imperial Navy, sheered off when the ship had been destroyed.  The quarter mile long fragment had hung in orbit for nearly a century before gravity took its toll and it had come crashing down through the atmosphere crashing into the bluff and compacting multiple decks under the sheer forces involved.

“Still,” puffed Attenotes, “I don’t see why the fleet couldn’t have levelled this place from orbit and wiped the Imperials out like the dogs they are.”

“The Sky Faeroes move in mysterious ways,” shrugged Rhamoses “Their plans are beyond our ken.”  The two of them turned, looking up the slopes to the pavilions of the Faeroes where armour-clad sky warriors stood sentinel, resplendent in their high war crowns.  Attenotes’ breath caught in his throat as he saw at the entrance to the main pavilion stood the First Faeroe.  Quickly his eyes snapped back to the tzaangors, feeling unworthy of the honour of looking upon a sorcerer-king of Xandria.

*************************************

High up on the raise, Heron Ahmose, First Faeroe of Xandria observed the battlefield, neither noticing nor caring about Attenotes’ action.  He surveyed the whole field, his lip curling at the sight of the tzaangors too.  He too despised them and saw them as filth, but unlike Attenotes he was privilege to the part they played.  His eyes traced the blood stains on the snow, noting the lines they formed and he allowed himself a small smile.  Turning his heel he ducked into the pavilion and took his throne at the hololith table.

“Is the circle complete?” asked Galen Nehebkau from across the table, studying the flickering holographic battlefield it displayed.

“Almost,” replied Heron, giving the machine a whack to clear the static from its display.  He gestured and glowing runes advanced towards the fortress “One more wave of our brother’s tzaangor and it will be complete.  The fortress flashed, simulating the weapons fire of the defenders and the runes for the tzaangors flickered and died.  Instantly blazing patterns flared into life, more complex and arcane than the simple battle display.

“How soon?” asked Galen clinically, caring less for the beastmen’s fate than even Attenotes.

“So impatient,” chuckled Haarexereces swanning into the pavilion.  The two sorcerer glared at their brother disapprovingly.  If the avian-masked sorcerer noticed or cared he didn’t show it. “I will order the advance in due time, when everything is in alignment.”

“And why are things not ‘in alignment’ yet?” growled Laertiades from the back of the pavilion “I thought your damn ritual was on a schedule.”

The sorcerer chuckled again.  “This ritual is an art, not a science cousin.”  His eyes flashed with mirth as Laertiades bristled at  the word.  “It is not yet time.  My Tower is yet to be in position.  I’d gladly explain the intricacies to you if you wish.”

“I’d love to hear your lecture,” snorted the Iron Warrior, “but it’s over time I checked the siege lines.”  The terminator clamped his helm into place and shouldered his way from the tent as Haarexereces cackled and took his seat.

“Must you bait him?” asked Heron flatly.

“But it’s so fun,” laughed Haarexereces.

Heron shook his head and studied the battlemap.  “He has a point though.  Timing is crucial if our father’s plan is to succeed.  Your Tower should have been in position long before now.  If it does not cross the pass by eveningfall the whole ritual will unravel.”

“My thralls have everything in had.  It will arrive in time, you just attend to your numbers and equations.”  He cocked his head “Shh, do you hear that?  The song is nearly complete, how beautiful it is.”  The other two opened themselves to the Great Ocean, drinking in the ritual resonating across the Warp.  To each it was different; Haarexereces heard it as an opera, to Galen it was a living, breathing entity and to Heron it was a complex mechanism of interlocking gears ticking in perfect synchronicity but all could tell things were drawing to a climax.

“Sound the advance,” whispered Heron, opening his eyes “There is no going back now.”

**************************************

Grothnar Ashmaw gripped the fortress’s buttress, gritting his teeth.

“Here they come again,” he growled, watching the advance of the mutant horde “Don’t they know by now it’s useless?”  He spat a wad of phlegm over the frost-rimmed battlements.  “And again with the mutants?  Cowards!  Why don’t you come yourselves Witchspawn!”

Hrald Wyrdtouched pitched the bridge of his nose and shrugged.  “It’s probably some part of some convoluted plan; the Witches have ever been the schemers.”

“If only we could draw them out,” snapped Grothnar, punching the buttress, “I still don’t see why we can’t use this wreck’s point defences to flatten their camp.”

“As I have enumerated multiple times,” interjected the red robes techpriest from nearby “1) This vessel was designed to operate in space, 2) while space is indeed cold, it is also a superb insulator and 3) when operational this vessel would have generated immense levels of heat which when combined with the aforementioned insulation properties of a vacuum would have prevented the weapons from freezing up.”  Grothnar looked down at the mortal and snorted derisively, not caring for his prattle.  While he respected the Midgardian Warriors of the Astra Millitarum that were holed up in the fortress with his squad, he held no such regard to the Martian Priesthood assigned to their regiment.

Hrald groaned, holding his head and Grothnar gave him a look that mixed irritation, disgust and awe.  As a Blood Claw the Wyrdtouched had been considered by the Rune Priests for elevation to one of their number, but had been dismissed for such honour for while he had a connection to the spirits, it was meagre and not strong enough to be one of that vaulted brotherhood.  That connection had led him to be morose and prone to visions, but also gave those around him a sense on unease and even years of serving together had done nothing to lessen that felling for Grothnar.

“What now?” snapped Grothnar “Do you taste some foul sorcery afoot?”

“Command the Midgardians to hold fire,” gasped Hrald “Those mutants cannot be killed.”

“Why brother?”

“I don’t know…the spirits of this world are unquiet…their screams are deafening but I get the sense the witches want us to slay those things.”

Grothnar frowned, loath to let the mutants live, but Hrald’s sixth sense had proven valuable over the year.  Muttering a Fenrisian curse, he activated his armour’s vox and gave the command.  Narrowing his eyes he watched the cavorting horse approach.  “You better be right,” he hissed as the front of the horde crossed the red smear marking where previous assaults had been felled.  His eyes flicked up the hill to the command pavilions where the cabal of Sorcerers stood watching too.  From what he could tell of their body languages from this distance they seemed somewhat agitated.  Maybe Hrald was correct.

The thought hadn’t even finished crossing his mind when the artillery opened fire.  The basilisk tanks entrenched on the hill thundered, launching their explosive shells in high arcs that terminated in the midst of the onrushing horde.  The two Space Wolves stood mouths agape at the perfidy.  In silence they watched as the surviving beastman started to scatter and were cut down by stubber and autocannon fire.

As the last died there was a peel of thunder and the sky went dark.

***************************************

On the hill by the pavilions, the three exalted sorcerers bowed their heads, sending psychic pulses to their awaiting Silver Towers.  Constructs just as immaterial as they were physical, the Towers drifted over the mountains from the valleys they had been hidden in, cresting the peaks gracefully.  Still they moved slowly and it would be some time before they were in position.  Without saying a word, for such communication was unnecessary as all three knew their part, the three separated and took their positions flanked by their Rubricae bodyguards.

Heron clutched his force axe, an immense two-handed khopesh of his own crafting, and studied the battlefield.  While the ritual required yet more blood to be spilled, he saw no reason to needlessly shed the blood of his own followers when there was plenty in the fortress.  With a signal, the entrenched artillery turned their weapons to cracking the defences rigged by the Midgardians.  While the artillery had no hope of cracking the hull, it would be sufficient to force the defenders to keep their heads down and would flatten the barricades and gun nests they’d erected on it.

With a smirk he strode over to where robed priests tended to a maniple of robots.

+Is it time?+ rumbled a voice in his head.

+That it is brother,+ he replied turning to look up at the frost-rimmed dreadnought.

+Good,+ Utu stood with a groan of gears, flexing his mighty hands. +The cold was starting to make my rotator cup seize.+

+Remember not to let your hatred for the Sons of Russ cloud your judgement.  You must be back here before completion.+

The ancient contemptor looked down at him and twitched its head in acknowledgement.  Hefting his mighty force blade, Utu sent a psychic pulse, spurring the maniple into motion and the calstellax automata lumbered after him.

That duty seen to, Heron headed back to his tent to prepare for the next part of the plan.  Though this world was a forgotten backwater, the Midgardians had managed to get an astrotelepathic distress call out before the Thousand Sons own astropaths had managed to cloud the empyrean around the system and three days ago a small flotilla had arrived in system.  On Heron’s orders, his own fleet had taken position in the shadow of the moon, hidden from the Imperials’ sensors.  Within a few hours the flotilla would reach high orbit and would begin launching drop ships to relieve the beleaguered defenders.  They could not be allowed to land and Heron had the perfect plan to deal with them, but it was crucial that he began his preparations shortly.

***************************************

Attenotes raised the whistle to his lips and blew.  All along the lines horns and whistles blew as the Xandrian troops were called to order as the command to attack came down.  He glanced up the hill to where the Sky-Warriors were being decked with their war crowns and anointed with sacred oils by their privileged attendants as his unit formed up .  The sight made him swell with pride that he would have the honour of going into battle beside them.  With a smile he took his place and waited.

Silence descended and then a single horn blared, echoing across the valley and as one the army advanced.  Attenotes strode forwards, resisting the urge to rush forwards; it would be unbecoming an officer of the Xadrian Spireguard to rush forward like some common mutant or tzaangor.  Behind him was the crunch of his squad’s boots, all but masked by the measured thrum of the guns firing in an almost musical pattern.  In front of him the shells they launched thudded into the walls of the fortress, blossoming into fire and shrapnel.

He glanced left and right to check that he and his squad were keeping pace with the rest of the line and was proud to see that they were.  At least they were with the other Spireguard; the remaining Tzaangor horde had pulled ahead, cavorting and cackling in their insane manner.  And above on a bejewelled brazen disc soared the avian faced Sorcerer that had brought them here.

The advance continued and as the front ranks approached the foot of the fortress walls, the barrage pulled up so that it wouldn’t hit them.  Attenotes glanced up at the high battlements and motioned for those under his command equipped with grapnels to toss them.  All along the walls, other squads did likewise while in the centre of the line specially trained assault troops locked shields and followed in the wake of the Tzaangors up a ramp to the remains of what remained of the ramshackle main gates.

As his men checked their lines were secure, he turned to look down the line and to his amazement a dozen paces away  stood a towering mechanical warrior, like some statue of an ancient hero come to life.  Awed, he watched as three giant robotic scarabs clanked up next to it.  The crimson plated warrior turned to look down at him and then gestured.  The snow at its feet hissed, vaporised by a sheet of telekinetic lighting and slowly it and its guards rose, lifted by a broad kine shield.

***************************************

Grothnar growled, crouching in the dark corridor, Hrald’s corpse at his feet.  Perhaps forewarned by his connection to the world spirits the Wyrdtouched had shoved him aside just before the first shells had hit and for his trouble had taken shrapnel to the head.  Grothnar had dragged his brother to the safety of the corridor, only to find he was already dead, a nasty shard of shell casing skewered through one eye and out the back of his head.  Grothnar had howled in anger and spite for five whole minutes, and had spent the rest of the time brooding.  Now the barrage was letting up he could go forth and avenge Hrald and the Midgardians whose shredded bodies littered the corridor mouth.

He loped out onto the battlements, weapons at the ready and glanced about at the carnage.  Below the sound of battle erupted as the defenders who’d either managed to take shelter from the barrage or who had been fortunate enough to have been inside when it hit charged forwards only to find the mutants and heretics swarming over the walls.  In his ear the vox bead squawked as the ragged defenders shouted commands at each other, trying to organise themselves.

From his position he could look down and  judge the flow of the battle.  Cursing fate, he tapped the vox bead and barked orders.  He ground his teeth, wishing he could throw himself into the press of battle, but like all Sons of Russ he was no mere berserker and his sense of duty overrode any desire to let his blade taste blood.  Still, it galled him.

“My lord!” called a mail-clad guardsman rushing up and thumping his chest in salute.  On his back was a bulky long range vox unit and his other hand held the speaker horn.

“What?” snapped Grothnar “In case you hadn’t noticed I’m busy directing a battle.”

“My lord,” grunted the guardsman, offering the horn “We’ve just received word that reinforcements are due; I have the commander on the line now.”

“What?” snapped Grothnar in disbelief, snatching it up “Give that here.  Who is this?”

“This is Captain Ptolmec of the Brotherhood of a Thousand.  We’ve just made orbit and are preparing to launch fighters.  What is your status?” came a clipped voice from the speaker.

“I am Thegn Grothnar Ashmaw of the Vlka Fenryka.  And currently I am trying to fend off an attack by the spawn of Magnus and their followers.”

“I gathered.  Can you hold out until-” the voice cut off and it sounded like a heated debate was going on at that end.  “I apologise brother; I will be unable to spare more than a token force to reinforce you.”

“Why?” snapped Grothnar, his hackles rising.

“The traitors had a fleet hiding behind the moon.  I will need as many assets as I can to fend them off.”

“Bah, that should be no trouble.”

“With due respect, I do not call what appears to be a heavily modified Gloriana class battlebarge ‘no trouble’.”

Grothnar snorted “The greater the foe the greater the glory.”  He ducked as a missile whizzed overhead and impacted the flank of the fortress.  “Now I have a battle to wage and so do you.”

“Good luck brother.”

“Luck,” snorted Grothnar, “Luck is the crutch of the weakling.”

***************************************

Utu stomped forwards, following the psi-automata maniple, directing it with pulses of psychic thought.  The scarab-like robot clattered in sync along the battlements clearing guardsmen away with bursts of ensorcelled bolts from their bolt cannons and reducing any who managed to get too close to red paste with swipes of their power fists.  Any that got past them he sent flying from the battlements with a telekinetic flick or crushed into too small fleshy balls with thought.  One had even got close enough to try throwing a krak grenade in his face but had misjudged the throw and it had bounced off his carapace back at the thrower.

The guardsmen manning the fortress were savage fighters, but sheer weight of numbers was overrunning them, and before long Utu found himself surrounded by Spireguard with no Midgardians to be seen.  At least none alive that weren’t in the process of decorating the deck plates with their own intestines.  Utu looked about and when he was satisfied that there was no immediate threat he sent a psychic pulse, gathering the automata around him and lifted them on a telekinetic disc to the next level as around them the Spireguard started their own climb.

The first level had been easy to take as the barrage had driven the defenders from their positions, but now they had recovered and as the four of them rose up las bolts and autogun shells flashed off his atomantic shielding.  Inside his control coffin he gave a sigh of irritation and as they drew level with the defenders he gave a telepathic command and the automata surged forwards, clambering over the wreckage of the battlements.

Stepping lightly he followed them, drawing on the arts of the Pyrae and incinerating a swathe of Midgardians.  For several minutes he and his guards were and island of resilience in a sea of fury, but gradually more and more red pushed their way up the walls.  Idly he wondered where the squad of Space Wolves were; it wasn’t like the Sons of Russ to avoid where the fighting was thickest.

***************************************

Heron sat on the floor outside his pavilion, eyes closed in concentration.  While his mortal body was locked in meditative poise, his aetheric form soared high, seeing not the savage battle being fought on the fortress’ ramparts, but instead its reflection within the Warp.  To his mind the whole thing was a vast, complex clockwork machine strung in and around a vast web of connections.  Dispassionately he observed it giving the occasional nudge or tweak to keep it ticking in tune or stringing a new thread which pulled or was pulled on the rest forming a new, equally complex web.  He neither knew nor cared what impact these changes had on the immediate battlefield, merely that the machine would be complete when the time came.

His thought-form sailed higher for a broader view and he permitted himself a slight smile, observing the three Towers closing in, drawing the noose closed.  Caressing one thread, he followed it up higher, to where a second weave was closing.  High above he knew his fleet was engaging the Imperial one that had come to relieve the beleaguered defenders below, and just as anticipated they had be caught between his fleet and the planet.

A frown crossed his brow.  No not exactly as planned.  The tapestry of the space battle was frayed at one corner.  He tugged gently at the straggling threads, investigating them.  With a thought he severed their lines and started to weave them into the main construct below.  He could work with this, but it’d require a delicate touch…

***************************************

Grothnar pounded the battlement in frustration, once more one of the levels had fallen to the traitors and their filth was now washing through the lower levels.  A bestial curse snarled from his lips; the fortress was a maze of corridors and crawl spaces and now there was no way to guarantee they could be stopped from overrunning the whole place as there were too many routes.

“All units fall back to the main hall,” he breathed, “We’ll make our last stand there.”

A chorus of voices washed over the vox as units all over the fortress replied compliance.  All except one.

“Ah canna do it Groth,” spat a determined voice, “We’re cut off.”  The sound of bolster fire erupted over the line followed by a Fenrisian curse.

“Jorrik.  Jorrik!” shouted Grothnar.

“Ahm sorry Groth,” replied Jorrik, his voice thick with fluid, “Ahm done fah, bu’ ahm gonna take a big one wi’ me.”  Before Grothnar could even reply the distinct sound of a melta bomb came over the line before it cut dead.

Grothnar threw back his head and let rip a howl to let the wolves of Hel know a warrior had departed this world.  With Jorrik’s death Grothnar’s squad was down to four.  Four against all this.  The Midgardians were fearsome warriors, true, but he’d rather have had a couple more squads of Astartes at his back, even those toy soldier Ultramarines would be a vast asset.

As if on cue, the vox squawked and he answered it.  “Thunderhawk  Millenial to Sergeant Grothnar,” came a tinny voice, distorted by static “We’re incoming, approaching from south south east.  Do you require assistance or extraction?”

“Extraction?” spat Grothnar “I will not run from a fight like some dastard.”

“Acknowledged,” replied the voice on the other end “Expect us shortly.”

Grothnar snorted and rounded on the nearby tech priest who was supervising a team of menials working over one of the point defence cannons. “Get that working,” he bellowed, “The least we can do is try and give those ships some covering fire.”  The priest gave what sounded like a sigh of irritation but before he could speak, Grothnar cut him off “Save the why and just do it.”  He turned away ignoring the angry bust of machine code the priest hurled in his way and stared out over the battlefield.

In the distance, cresting the peaks behind the traitors’ camp a white, gold-capped pyramid was growing ever closer and far on the left flank he could spy a silver column with golden serpents coiled around it above a pass.

***************************************

Laertiades grunted as autogun bullets glanced off his pauldron.  The Midgardians were fierce fighters but in the ways of siegecraft were rather pitiful and prone to rash and foolhardy acts of valour.  And the Space Wolves were little better.  Already he personally had slain two and not five minutes before he’d seen one suicidally use a melta bomb to take down one of the battle automata guarding Utu when he could have used it on a nearby strut to collapse the corridor on the dreadnought and all the automata.

Dismissively he raised his combi-bolter and mowed down the last few guardsmen.  Their broken bodies crunched beneath the boots of his terminator armour as he headed onwards, his squad following in synchronicity, the clomp of their boots overlapping with the piston hiss of the mindless servitors they’d been charged with escorting.

Rounding a corner he came face to face with a dead end.  At some point there had been a leak or pipes had burst or something as instead of a blast door or a mangled mess of rubble that made most of the dead ends in this maze of corridors he was confronted with a block of ice.  Mag-clamping his bolter to his thigh he pulled a dataslate from a belt pouch and rechecked the schematic on it.

“This is it,” he grunted, turning to his squad.  As one they stowed their bolters and drew the meltaguns they’d been equipped with for this mission.  Taking up positions they began firing in a pre-agreed firing pattern, flashboiling the ice.

***************************************

Techpriest Hal Kabor swore and struck the cannon on its flank.  That blasted Astartes was asking the impossible of them.  They had neither the time nor the resources to get them working for what he wanted and yet he demanded they keep working.

The techpriest drew a breath.  Such emotions were unbecoming of an adept of Mars and had no place in his life.  Centring himself he permitted himself a view of the battlefield.  In the distance something glinted in the sky.  His optics clicked as he focused on it, zooming in.

“My lord,” he said, turning to Grothnar “The airborne reinforcements have arrived.”

The Space Wolf’s barking laugh was cut short by the shouting of the menials fussing over the nearest point defence cannon.  The Space Marine and techpriest turned to see what the commotion was and to their horror watched as the barrel warped into the maw of some malign, twisted beast.  Kabor could have sworn it growled.  And as it did so, the breach flung open, hell fire blazing within, and sucked in the nearest menials.  Deck plates buckled, then started to bubble and run like wax and all Kabor could do was stare in dumbfounded horror before Grothnar grabbed him and hauled him away, roaring Fenrisian oaths.

The warped cannon blazed, spitting helfire and the two could only watch as cannon all along the fortress’ flanks blazed into life.  The sky erupted above the enemy camp tearing apart the approaching Imperial aircraft.

“Cowards!” bellowed Grothnar at the distant camp “Witches!  Do you take pleasure in dashing hope?”

“M-my lord?” stammered Kabor, looking up at him.

Grothnar rounded on him, spraying him with spittle.  “The dastards could have done this any time.  They let those strike craft get through just to raise our hopes all so they could dash them.”

Before Kabor could answer the deck beneath their feet thrummed and blazing light lanced out into the sky.  “The lance batteries,” he gasped “But that’s impossible – the generatorium for them is cold.  How could they?”

***************************************

Laertiades lead his squad away from the generatorium, their task complete.  He didn’t pretend to even grasp t basics of the technosorcery behind it, but he couldn’t argue with its results.  As soon as the servitors had manoeuvred the daemonflask into position power had spread throughout the fortress.  He could already hear the thrum of the batteries recharging for another salvo.

He took up position at the mouth of the intersection with half his squad while the others set the charges and waited.  In the corner of his helmet’s display a timer ticked down, marking how long they had left before it’d be too late.

The sound of heavy footsteps told him the charges were planted and with a gesture he ordered the squad forward.  Their pace was measured, almost casual considering the impending expositions, but they were Iron Warriors and they all knew full well how much time they had and what was a safe distance and they well well beyond it when the charges went off, sealing the generatorium from interference by the defenders.

They met surprisingly little resistance on the way out and as soon as the reached the point where the wreckage and bulk of the fortress wouldn’t scramble their signal Laertiades activated a wrist mounted beacon and motioned for his squad to form up ready for teleportation.

***************************************

Utu tossed a guardsman aside with a telekinetic blast.  With the Midgardians in full tactical withdrawal the attacking forces were now surging through the corridors and halls of the fortress like a red and gold tide, washing away the few pockets of resistance left behind.

+Brother is this not glorious?+ cackled Haarexereces, drifting up on his disc.

+No, this is merely pest control+ snapped Utu, not caring for his fellow sorcerer’s manner +If our Father did not require it for his ritual I would have left it entirely to the mortals to deal with, or better yet bombard this place from orbit.+

+Where’s your soul?  I thought you were called the Avenger of Prospero.+

+Only by some, and that does not mean I take pleasure in this, quite the contrary in fact,+ he glanced up the corridor.  Beyond lay the grand hall where the last of the defenders were mustering for a final stand.  The fingers of his dreadnought chassis twitched, itching to slay the remaining few Space Wolves he knew were there organising the guardsmen.  +Come, it is time we departed,+ he rumbled turning away.

+Not yet,+ cackled Haarexereces +Not while there is fun to be had.+. Utu could swear the beaked helm clacked open and closed like a corvid’s mockery, and for a second he wondered if it truly was a helm or if his body was warped by the fleshchange.

+Leave or stay,+ rumbled Utu, taking a step away +I care not.  The ritual will continue either way.+  He did not wait for an answer and continued to walk, giving a final command to his automata to press the attack and then set them loose.  The sounds of battle drifted away as he made his way out of the maze of corridors and soon were lost to the cacophony of the lance batteries firing, and then all of a sudden silence, save for the whir of the servos in his legs and the clanging of his footsteps.

He picked up his pace.  The batteries ceasing fire could only mean the final stage was due to begin any time.  Breaking into a lumbering run he shoved aside a barricade of wreckage with a psychic shove and burst out onto the battlements.  He paused looking out over the battlefield, noting the closeness of the two visible towers and silently cursed at how close he was cutting it.  Summoning a kineshield at his feet, he lifted himself up and made his way downwards.

***************************************

Attenotes coughed, spilling more blood down his front as he raised a hand towards the retreating dreadnought, but it paid him no heed.  Weakly his arm fell to his side and he slumped back, head lolling to one side.  He’d been leading the charge against one of the few remaining pockets of resistance on the walls of the fortress when the bombardment had started up again and a stray shel had caused the floor beneath his feet to give way, pitching him, his men and the barbaric defenders to a lower level.  All about him was rubble and mangled bodies.

A wheezing laugh drew his attention and he looked over to see a bearded, mailclad savage dragging his way across the rubble, his legs a mangled mess.  The savage spat something in his heathen language and laughed again.  Scowling, Attenotes levelled his pistol and the man and then paused with a frown.  His arm ended in a stump.  Strange, he could have sworn he was still holding the pistol.

He looked down and half delirious with blood loss burst out laughing.  The savage cocked his head to see what the Xandrian was looking at and join in.  Next to Attenotes lay his hand, still holding the pistol.

Presently the laughter died and the two of them slumped, giving into exhaustion.  Attenotes closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the guns, their pounding a musical beat.  The tune changed as the guns of the fortress died, followed shortly by the Xandrian guns.

He opened his eyes and smiled giddily.  The rays of the setting sun were glinting off the summers of the two sorcerous towers.  The light flashed off the disc atop the serpent tower and a golden beam lanced out.  Gold was the last thing Attenotes saw.

***************************************

Heron clutched his force axe, watching as the lance beams carved runes into the face of the fortress.  Next to him Galen removed his helm, breathing in the evening air.

+You’re cutting it fine,+ said Galen to the approaching form of Utu.

+More to the point,+ interrupted Heron, not taking his eyes from the blazing script being carved into the fortress +Where is our other brother?+

+He is busy entertaining himself,+ grumbled Utu, resting his force sword on his pauldron +He refused to come.+

+So be it,+ sighed Heron, +We do not need him at this stage anyway.  His tower will be in position soon and that is all that matters.+

+He is loathsome, but we really should not forsake him,+ interjected Galen +He is still our brother.+

Heron shook his head +This is his choice, he knew the risks.  Sometimes I think you are too soft Galen.+

Galen shrugged +There are so few of us left in the galaxy.  I would say the same even if it was that cur Ahriman in there.+

Heron smiled and gently shook his head +It is already too late.  Any that still live in that place are doomed.+. He motioned with his staff to the blood-churned field between them and the fortress.  The smears of blood and flesh pulsed faintly in arcane script.

Utu stomped up and stood beside them, looking back at the fortress.  The three stood in silence, watching and ignoring the sound of the mortal troops packing up camp as night fell.  The sky darkened to a purple bruise and then to inky black, the stars overhead dim, as is a thin veil had been drawn over them.  High above rippled the weapons fire of the fighting ships and flaming wreckage streaked away to the horizon as burning hulks fell through the upper atmosphere.

“Now,” whispered Heron, thumping his axe into the ground.

***************************************

Sorcerous light blazed into being at the peak of the three towers and then flashed out towards each other in continuos beams, forming a sorcerous triangle in the sky, soon followed by a second set arcing around to circumscribe the triangle with a magical ring.  Energy pulsed back and forth along the lines, runes dancing their entire length, mirrored by the runes in the snow which now blazed furiously.

The peaks of the towers pulsed again and the vertices of the triangle started to travel around the circle.  When they reached a third of the way to the next tower the towers pulsed again, firing new beams at each other to form a second triangle which then started to follow the first at the same speed.  When the triangles had traveled another third of the arcs, yet again the towers pulsed and a third triangle sprang into being.

The now nine pointed star continued to rotate, its points gleaming.  More lines sprang between the points of the star, creating numerous overlapping shapes, forms and runes, an intricate design too complex for a mortal mind to fully grasp.

Below, the snow hissed, boiling away or churning apart.  The three Thousand Sons turned, the ritual passing the point where it could be stopped, now running on its own.  Behind them marched their Rubricae guards, shepherded by the aspiring sorcerers.  They formed up below Heron’s tower and turned back for one final look before a ripple of warp energy enveloped them, teleporting them up into the safety of the tower.

The towers pulsed a final time, launching beams into the air, arcing up, reaching their apex directly over the centre of the fortress where the last defenders remained.

***************************************

Grothnar’s axe bit deep into the sorcerer’ neck, launching his avian head into the air.  The Space Wolf threw back his head and let rip a victorious howl.  Around him the mutant filth squawked and bayed in dismay and melted away.  Breathing heavily he rested on his axe and looked around at the carnage.  Bodies were piled high where they fell, many wrapped in a deathly embrace with their foes as they had resorted to grappling and strangling one another when the firearms ran dry and their blades broke.

He looked around the cavernous hall with a grimace.  A quick headcount of the battered Midgardians who picked their way through the carnage was grim.  Of the three regiments he’d started with, only eighty men remained, and most looked to be dead on their feet.

“To me,” he bellowed, “We are not victorious yet.”  The looks they gave were a mix of horror, hope and despair.

“Surely its over,” groused a guardsman, a dirty bandage covering one eye “By the Allfather we’ve broken them.”

“Nay,” spat another “The witches guiding this still live.”

“You really think this is all they’ve got?” barked another “This filth was just the dregs they could afford to lose.  They have more to come.”

“Silence,” snarled Grothnar, “Talk solves nothing.”  He glared about him.  “Come.  We cannot defend this hall.  With me, we’ll fall back to the outer ante-chamber.”  Not waiting for a reply he limped away, heading for a chamber in the outer wall.

Once it had been an observation gallery in the side of a ship, but the viewport had shattered when the ship fragment had crashed, exposing the room to the elements.  They’d used it as a store room and the crates would serve well as a barricade.  He limped over to the viewport and looked out in time to see the light arc up from the towers.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled and he squinted out into the darkness.  The sorcerous beams offered little illumination, but it was enough.  Beyond the pyramid was churned snow, but a curious lack of siege works or troops.  Even the pavilions and banners that had fluttered proudly in the breeze had been packed away.

His eyes flicked up at the shapes in the sky but he quickly looked away, the images burning to look at directly.  Rubbing his eyes he looked back at the tower, then rubbed them again.  He could swear the tower was moving.

He swore, axe falling from his numb hands.  The tower was moving indeed.  He watched as it rose up gracefully and as it did so so did the arcs of light, peeling back the fabric of reality in the dome above the spinning circle and shapes.  The churning kaleidoscope the was revealed as the curtain of reality was pulled back from the dome brought bloody tears to his eyes and a dread certainty gripped his hearts.  He was looking on the Warp itself, and it was more than his sanity could bare.

***************************************

The towers continued to rise, the curtain of reality draped between them until only the apex remained connected to the dome.  And then the thread snapped and hell burst from the wound in reality, the curtain dissolving as the towers rose further.

High in orbit the battle had long since petered out and the Xandrian fleet awaited them peacefully.  Heron’s pyramid and Galen’s caduceus headed towards the Heron’s flagship, the Scion of Prospero, while Haarexereces’ jumble of jewels and bubbled silver headed toward his personal cruiser.

As soon as the towers were aboard, the fleet turned, heading for the jump point beyond the system, leaving the nameless world to its fate.

***************************************

Heron took a seat at the table in the Scion’s Panopticon and steepled his fingers, observing the crystal table in front of him.  Beneath it’s surface a map of the galaxy swirled into being.

“Is it done?” asked Laertiades, resting his chin on a gauntleted fist.

“It is,” nodded Heron, not taking his eyes from the map.

“What is done?” asked Laertiades, cocking his head to observe the map “You never actually elaborated.”

“Something that is part of a plan that is beyond all of us,” replied Galen, reclining in his chair.

“Observe,” said Heron with a gesture.  Across the galaxy pinpricks of light flickered into being.  Their lights bled into one another forming a serpentine shape that snaked from one side of the Imperium to another.  Laertiades frowned, noticing they were at the tip of one end, the other terminating deep within the Eye of Terror.

“You have some scheme involving Russ’s pups don’t you?” he asked, noticing two pinpricks burnt brighter than the others.  One was Fenris and the other… “Prospero?” he breathed, confused.

Heron nodded.  “It is a scheme of my father’s design.  I do not know the full details, but even now the Crimson King leads an invasion of the Wolves’ home.  For what purpose we know not.”

“All will be revealed soon though,” nodded Galen.

“Aye,” said Heron with a smile “We are destined for Sortiarius.”

“The Planet of the Sorcerers?” exclaimed Laertiades in shock “But I thought you were exiled from there.”

“It is time for the prodigal Sons to return home,” chuckled Galen, looking Heron in the eye and sharing a smile.  As one they turned their attention to the prisoner suspended above the far side of the table, the captain of the Brotherhood of a Thousand who been captured along with several of his battle-brothers during the space battle.  “All of them.”

Zântrôm stomped up to the bow of his hull-destroyer the [i]Varvarfaz[/i] and stared out at the sea and cliff before him.  They were returning to port after a successful slaving raid an the hold was bursting with captives taken from the villages of Nordland and even the crew of a Cathayan junk they’d lucked upon leaving Marienburg.  The captain smiled, thinking about the price he’d get for them on the slave exchange in Uzkulak, a tidy sum even after the lords of the tower took their customs charges.  The better part of the voyage was behind them, but even here, a hundred leagues from Uzkulak it paid to be careful.  At this point the Sea of Chaos was narrow enough that dark cliffs loomed either side of the ship; Norsca to the west and the Chaos Wastes to the east.  Though they looked desolate, Zântrôm knew very well that all manner of beasts lurked in the shadows, waiting to pray on the unwary; chimera, manticore and wyverns all nested in caves high up in the peaks while sea trolls and leviathans made their homes on the sea bed.

He gripped the rail tightly, half wishing for an attack; humans were all well and good, but such creatures fetched a higher price, both in gold and renown.  A screech drew his attention, and he turned just in time to see a manticore take flight.  Solemnly he watched as it wheeled in the air and glided southwards, away from the ship.  He frowned, frustrated that it was now out of his grasp, but any thoughts querying why it would fly away were answered before they were asked by a low rumble from the north.  He turned aft ward to see a dark smudge on the horizon indicating a storm brewing.  A vicious storm in his expert opinion.  Grinding his teeth he stomped back to the aftcastle and when he arrived at the upper sanctum gave a smile of satisfaction that his seasoned crew had already leapt into action.  They’d dragged two slaves from the hold and chained them to the floor before the priest’s dais.  The captain, bowed his head and tilted his hat in respect to the two graven images that hung on the walls wreathed in shadows.

Chanting in an arcane tongue, the priest stepped forwards and drew a bronze dagger from his robes.  Spitting syllables that hurt to listen to, he grabbed the first slave, a seven foot tall Nordlander who’d been captured after splitting the skulls of three Dawi with his smith’s hammers, by the chin and cut out his tongue, tossing it into a braiser followed by the man’s eyes.  The slave tried to struggle, but the heavy iron chains bound him too tightly and a swift steel shod kick to the kidneys doubled him over.  Though none of the assembled dwarfs held any sympathy for the mailing wretches they enslaved, all of them nonetheless gave a collective wince as the blade cut low for the next offering to be tossed into the flames.  With the slave know longer able to fight back, the priest loosed the chains and dragged him up onto the dais and slit his throat, spilling his life blood onto the coals.

With the sacrifice to Hashut finished, the priest sheathed the dagger and still chanting, turned his attention to the sacrifice to Stromfels, the plump merchant that had owed the Cathayan ship they’d captured.  At the priest’s gesture, a barrel of salt water was brought forth and hefted by two burly sailors.  The priest stepped behind the whimpering slave and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth open.  The barrel was tilted and the water poured into the slave’s mouth.  Zântrôm watched silently as the slave slowly drowned, and when the blubbering mess slumped lifeless lay, the priest released him and gestured for him to be taken and thrown overboard.  With a nod, Zântrôm raised his hat to the gods’ images again and left the sanctum, heading to the bridge to order full steam ahead, hoping yo outrun the storm.

The next three hours were tense, but eventually the wind picked up and the clouds blew westwards towards the Norscan mountains.  Settling in his raised command throne he returned his attention to studying the landscape in front of the ship.  Eventually the unbroken cliffs gave way to fjords and he watched tensely, waiting for some foolhardy marauder tribe lurking in one to sail out and try to ambush them.  Disappointingly all he saw were a few longships returning home; the lands around Uzkulak were barren and lacking in wood and thus the fortress relied on Norscan traders to ship mountain pines to help fuel the furnaces of its industry and outfit the ragtag hobgoblin fleets under its sway.  Normally the Dawi Zharr would take what they wanted and enslave the local populace, but the lords of Uzkulak had long ago decided on the mercantile option as the trinkets traded to the Norscans for the wood cost them less than an occupation force enslaving the Norscans and logging the lumber themselves.  He was tempted to attack anyway, but he knew if he did then someone in his crew would rat him out for endangering the trade agreement;  if he was lucky he’d be flayed alive and his skin stitched into some hobgoblin’s sail.  If he was unlucky, then he’d be shipped off to the Black Fortress.  He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

The ship steamed on and a few hours later they reached the outermost defence of Uzkulak, seventy or so miles north of the fortress, not that non-Dawi Zharr would know that.  From this point on, the cliffs harboured concealed watchtowers and weapons platforms.  Any attacking fleet would be spotted long before they reached the fortress and warnings would be relayed along tunnel networks to the city.  As the attacking fleet passed, the cliff faces, in actuality doors and hatches indistinguishable from real cliff side to any but keen dwarf eyes, would slide aside or towers would rise from the ground of the cliff tops and rocket batteries and magma cannons would unleash a barrage of fire.  These concealed emplacements lined the way all the way to the fortress and after ten miles were joined by hidden doors at sea level that concealed hidden passages from which attack craft would issue to take the attackers midsips or even encircle them and cut off their escape route.

Zântrôm passed the time trying to spot them all, but knew even his keen eyes missed some.  Eventually the ship reached the next set of defences.  At fifty miles from Uzkulak, on either side of the route stood two towering statues of stoic dwarf warriors.  The two statues each held aloft a mighty axe and their axes crossed above the gap between them.  To an attacker, they looked like mere grandiose statues, erected by a vain and proud race, but in reality they were weapons themselves.  If an attacker reached this far, then the statues eyes and mouths would open, revealing cannons;  anyone getting closer would find that many of the scales in the statues’ armour were actually hatches which would open to allow blunderbusses to open fire; finally, any ship that managed to pass between them would be shocked to find that the arms holding the axes were hinged, and the giant blades would be brought down upon them.

In the past three millennia, only once had an attacker gotten beyond this point, and even then it was largely due to the bulk of Uzkulak’s forces being tied up trying to repel a landward attack by a horde of Khornate warriors during the last great Chaos incursion.  Since then, the lords of Uzkulak had spent much effort on improving the defences, adding more of the concealed watchtowers and entrances and pouring fortunes into updating the navy.  Zântrôm scowled as his ship was forced to let an example of this modernisation pass through the statues.  The ship was a low, sleek, wedge shaped prow destroyer and in his opinion didn’t have the soul of a four century old girl like his [i]Varvarfaz[/i].

Beyond the statues, the solid cliffs once more gave way to fjords, although these were all under the control of Uzkulak.  Many were abandoned, but most contained either a dockyard, dry dock or hobgoblin village, and many of them contained more concealed passages back to the main dockyard at the fortress.   From here the going was slower as strict laws governed the movement of ships along the main waterway to avoid collisions, but before long the ship rounded a bend, revealing Uzkulak in all its glory.

The waterway widened out into a large cove, and high atop the rear cliff stood the tower of Uzkulak.  During the last great Chaos incursion, the tower had been overrun, it’s walls shattered and cast down.  When the forces of Chaos had retreated at the end of the war, the displaced clan’s of Uzkulak had returned in force and retaken the ruins.  Since then they had raised the tower up higher and stronger.  It’s walls had been built from black granite and then clad in sheets of ivory magically transformed from the bones of mighty beast long dead collected from all over the Zorn Uzkul.  At its peek the twelve sided tower widened out, shaped into a four-faced skull, each face gazing in one of the cardinal points and atop them sat the colonnaded rotunda of the Temple of Hashut.  Around the tower, hidden from the vie workhorse down in the bay, the tower was shielded by layers of curtain walls and trenches to the south and west and by a river to the east.

The river cascaded down from the tower into the cove in a mighty waterfall which concealed the entrance to the docks of the tunnel that connected Uzkulak to the River Ruin, and from there to Zharr-Naggrund.  Either side of the waterfall the cliffs were hollowed out into immense caverns where the main fleet sat at port.  The roof of each cavern was supported by many mighty pillars carved from the parts of the cliffs that hadn’t been dug out, and each cavern extended back for miles via a network of tunnels.

In front of the port caverns, a stout bulwark stretched from the middle of the eastern cliffs to the centre of the bay where the Thunderblast tower stood.  The tower had been one of the earliest defences built at Uzkulak and had served the fortress’s inhabitants well in the early centuries after the coming of Hashut.  It was an ingenious design, a round tower of six levels, with each level having twelve cannon at evenly spaced points, and each level being built such that it could rotate independently of the others; not only did this allow the defenders to attack multiple directions, but fresh cannon could be brought to bare as the one just fired was reloaded or in the event one were to be destroyed, either by misfire or enemy action.  Such was its efficiency that the design had soon been adopted for the tower’s landward defences and had even spread to other parts of the Empire.

West of the tower the cove s open, or so it appeared.  A second bulwark stretched from the tower to the west cliff, but it was kept lowered.  When under attack, it could be raised creating an almost impenetrable barrier to all ships.  Zântrôm glanced west to where the hidden bulwark met the cliff and sneered.  There stood a small ziggurat, half buried in the cliff side at the mouth of another fjord.  Looking down the fjord between the ziggurat and its twin which sat at the other side of the opening he could spy the ships of the lesser races.  The fjord housed the Outsiders Quarter, a port where Sartosan buccaneers, Norscan marauders, Arabayan raiders and even Naggarothi corsairs could come to trade slaves and captured goods.  Zântrôm didn’t trust any of them, but begrudgingly he had to admit they had their uses.  Like the lumber traders they could be palmed off with worthless trinkets in exchange for valuable slaves and goods such as Indish spices or Cathayan silks without the risk to Dawi lives and it was said more than a few were spies for the lords of Uzkulak, paid to provide information invaluable to Dawi Zharr raiding parties seeking to attack the various manling lands to the west and south.  Still, that cut both ways; anyone willing to sell out their kin for gold would easily take coin from them to return the favour and Zântrôm was sure they were all secretly trying to figure out the fortress’s defences for the Dawi Zharr’s many enemies.

Shaking his head he turned to his crew and started bellowing orders for them to prepare to dock – they had a valuable haul to unload and he was itching to get them on the sales block as soon as possible; after all, the sooner they sold, the sooner he could set off for a fresh batch.

Above all other shapes, the ziggurat is most sacred unto Hashut, praise be His name, for it can be found throughout our society, greatest in all Creation.

For above all other shapes, the ziggurat is most sacred unto Hashut, praise be His name, for it can be found throughout our society, greatest in all Creation.

– author unknown.  This mantra is carved into a stone tablet found in every Dawi Zharr clan’s throne room to serve as a reminder of the correct order of things and to keep them in their place.

“There once was a mighty sword.  In its time it served its masters well, never growing dull and slaying many foes.  From father to son it was passed down through many generations until after many years being wielded by its eighth lord in a mighty duel it shattered along the blade.  Weaponless, the overlord was forced to take refuge behind his shield, but a mighty blow cleft it in twain and the overlord’s head was struck from his exposed neck.  The lord’s son, it’s ninth master gathered up the shards and handed them to his clan’s Daemonsmith, who took them to his forge.  He set aside the shield halves and cast the sword shards into a crucible.

At this the shield grew quiet and fearful, knowing the shards spoke the truth, even as they melted.  And as the shards foresaw, the smith returned to the forge and hammered them into a new blade, while the shield was stripped of its boss and the rest discarded.  So to shall the weak and unworthy be discarded in the End Times and only the strong shall emerge from the flames, hammered and tempered by the will of the gods into new forms for a new world, but at their heart still the same as they have always been, for as this has all happened before, so too shall it happen again.

– fable from the Apocrypha Uhr-Kulmbizharr, a collection of writings attributed to the renowned Uhr-Kulmbizharr, but believed by all right minded scholars to instead be the work of a lesser author using the Daemonsmith’s name to try and spread his lesser works.

Grazkh Coaltounge stared into the hot coals and casually tossed the blade shards into the crucible.

“Why bother?” sneered Drazkha Brassfist, “The axe is broken, throw it aside.”

Grazkh shook his head, not taking his eyes from the furnace.  “Symbolism is lost on you,” wheezed the Daemonsmith as the metal heated up.

“Symbolism?” snorted Drazkha, rolling his eyes.

“Look into the flames.  Tell me what you see.”

“Fire?”

“Nay.  I see the future and the past.”

“So now you’re a seer?”

“Hashut has granted me this vision,” explained Grazkh, pouring Taurus blood over the molten metal.  “It is always the same and always when I reforge a weapon…it troubles me, and reassures me at the same time.”

“So what do you see?” sighed the other Daemonsmith, as he set up the mould, impatient to know where this was going.

“A corrupt, broken world dying, consumed by the fires of war.”

“Comforting,” sneered Drazkha as his friend poured the metal into the mould.

Grazkh did not reply, instead murmuring incantations over the blade as the metal cooled.  Satisfied, he opened it up and grasping brazen tongs, removed the blade, plunging it back into the fire, before withdrawing it again and starting to hammer at it.  “I see the world die, but from its shattered remains a god forges it anew, a new world made from the old, just as from those shards I have forged a new blade.” He plunged the sword into a bucket of blood, gathered from the crucified body of an overlord that had dared turn on his clan’s ruling family and had failed.  “But just as this is not the first time this sword has been reforged, so to in my vision do I see an older world re shaped into ours by the gods, and six more times before that.  And just as one day this sword will be reforged, so too will the new world.”

“Sounds like you’re just bad at reforging weapons,” laughed Drazkha, “For this to be the ninth incarnation does not bode well for it.”

Grazkha shrugged, “All things die given time, what matters is whether they do their job it the time the gods allot them.  I would far rather reforge this sword a hundred times in as many years and have it slay a thousand foes each life, than reforge it once in that time and only slay a single foes once a decade.”  He smiled a dark smile and without warning plunged the blade deep into Drazkha’s broad chest.

“All this has happened before, and all it shall happen again,” he cackled madly, as the life seeped from his friend and into the blade.

“…And thus again did it come to pass that the world did burn,
Screaming and staunchly defiant to the end,
But such brazen demands were futile for,
Entropy brings even the greatest low.
Fiery embers flickered out and ashes grew cold,
Last follies lost amidst uncaring stars.

[fragment missing]

‘…As surely as life beget death, does not too death beget life?’
Sternly and stoically did the great drake set about its task,
Labouring slowly lest carelessness undo its creation;
Tirelessly labouring ’til at last the world were forged anew,
Again ’twas arisen from the flames,
For all this has happened before, and all this shall happen again.”

– only surviving fragment from an apocryphal Dawi-Zharr creation myth said to have been found inscribed blood on an iron tablet discovered below Daemon’s Stump.  Much of the text is damaged where the tablet has been melted by warpfyre after a daemonic incursion below the Stump centuries ago.

Krazk tilted his head back trying to drain the last drop of ale from his goblet and gave a grunt of annoyance as it stubbornly refused to budge.  Giving up, he plunged the golden vessel into the open cask  and took a swig.  It was a rare cask of Bugman’s taken in a raid long ago and seasoned with spices from Ind taken in a much more recent raid.  Resting the goblet on his broad paunch, he reclined back and peered out the open sides of his palanquin and the slave fields outside.

The empire of the Dawi Zharr was a vast enterprise built on the backs of industry and slavery.  Across hundreds of miles of wasteland that was the Darklands from the cold barren plain of the Zorn Uzkul in the north to the fiery ashes of the Desolation of Azgorh in the south countless slaves of numerous races toiled in service of their dwarfen masters, and each and every one required food to continue their tasks.  In a land beset by frequent volcanic eruptions and where vast ash clouds blotted out the sun for weeks or more at a time, arable land was hard to come by, and meat from dead slaves and cave grown fungi could only stretch so far; as a result, long ago in a half forgotten time near the founding of Zharr-Naggrund the Dawi Zharr had turned their minds to mastering nature and by might of sorcery and industry had pushed back the desolation of the tainted Plain of Zharr, leaving a small sliver of land around the great ziggurat able to support life.

The crops planted in the new slave fields had thrived for the volcanic soil was fertile.  To oversee their slaves who toiled the fields, and to give them a quiet retreat away from the prying eyes of their rivals, the sorcerer-prophets had started to build smaller ziggurats out in the plain and soon quarrels broke out over who had the rights to farm what and where.  To avoid civil war, the High Prophet Tammuz, later mockingly nicknamed Tammuz the Gardener, had laid down strict rules governing the division of the lands.  Great stone causeways had been constructed, crisscrossing the plain in an arcane pattern and dividing the fields into plots.  The plots immediate to each clan’s personal ziggurat were bequeathed to that clan and the rest were at first divided amongst them with the choicest plots going to those in highest favour.

However, after decades of strip farming, the soils grew poorer and the priesthood quickly realised that ironically their forefather’s actions to allow them to farm had inadvertently doomed them, for it was the volcanic ash from the regular eruptions that had granted the soil it’s fertility.  There was much debate over the course to take until an elderly Tammuz had again devised a solution.  Under his instruction, a great ritual had been performed and a covenant had been signed with Hashut and Slaanesh to refertilise the land and every twelve years the ritual had been conducted again.  Soon it had evolved into a festival; for the sorcerer-prophets it was a somber time that could alter the fate of their race, while for the common dwarfs it was an excuse to get drunk on the first new casks of ale brewed from the grains of the previous festival.

Krazk begrudged having to participate in such an ‘elfy’ affair as a harvest fertility festival, but he acknowledged its necessity so had dutifully set out that morning on the road from his clan’s ziggurat to the temple of Hashut high atop Mingol Zharr-Naggrund.  Normally he would have traveled via the tunnels carved deep below the plain that joined the lower levels of each clan’s ziggurat to one of the many subterranean levels of the mountainous capital, but currently they were packed with slaves baring the harvest to the numerous granaries and storehouses and lesser dwarfs on their way to the various festival halls.  Still, traveling by the causeways did have its benefits – as he traveled he could eye his rivals farms, marked out by the banners planted at each corner of every plot, and see who was behind on this years’ harvest, and he let out a smirk noting that his immediate rivals were far behind in both quality and quantity.  Combined with the boon of slaves and gold his clan had taken in raids these last few years, he would rise in status this year.

A shadow fell over him, sending a shiver down his spine and disrupting his musings.  He turned and peered out the other side of the palanquin and saw he was passing the ziggurat of the Bonebeard clan.  The pyramid was cold and silent and the farms around it were choked with weeds and bracken.  All who lived in Zharr-Naggrund knew the tale behind that thrice cursed clan.  Centuries ago they had been one of the middling clans, not powerful, but nowhere near the bottom of Dawi Zharr hierarchy either.  In secret their chief prophet Gallû had delved into shunned necromantic knowledge and had revealed his treachery on the Night of the Restless dead.  When Nagash had arisen, for a whole night all over the world the dead had walked the land and the capital of the Chaos Dwarfs was no different.  Legions of dead slaves had lurched to their feet and burst forth from the cold houses where they were being kept awaiting the butchers.  Seizing the opportunity it provided, Gallû had played his hand and had cast a ritual to take control of the dead in the city and a bitter struggle had broken out.  Setting aside their grievances, the disparate clan’s of Zharr-Naggrund had banded together and had forced the dead back into Gallû’s ziggurat.  Cursing him, the irate High Prophet had ordered the ziggurat sealed and rune encrusted cap stones and plaques and be chained over the doors and windows of the ziggurat, trapping the dead inside.  Ever since then the ziggurat had been shunned, and the farms immediate to it had been abandoned as no clan wished to claim the tainted land and every slave refused to toil in its shadow.

Krazk breathed a sigh of relief as his palanquin passed out of the shadow and drained his goblet in one swig, followed by a second and then a third.  A more compassionate soul would have been concerned about how the warrior escort marching along side him were holding up, but Krazk was a Dawi Zharr and only cared about the welfare of others in so much as it benefited himself or his clan.  With a grunt, he settled back into his seat, there were still many miles to go before they reached the base of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, and from there was the long climb up the mountainous pyramid to the temple of Hashut at its summit.

The sun was setting as Krazk reached the foot of the great ziggurat and he bellowed for fresh slaves to be brought forth.  He would ascend to the temple of Hashut by one of the four staircases carved into its sides and the slaves that bore his palanquin would need to be strong and healthy to make the climb.  Stoically, his guards brought forth four slack jawed ogres from the slave wagon that had accompanied them on the journey from their clan’s ziggurat.  The ogres hoisted the palanquin onto their shoulders and at the prodding of the taskmaster lumbered towards the foot of the stairs.

As they did so, Krazk noted the approach of the Prophet Khorr, patriarch of the Coldhand clan and nodded a greeting.  The Coldhands were a queer clan.  Unlike all other clans, the scions of that bloodline had no aptitude for Fire magic but instead possessed an innate affinity for ice magic.  As such they had no holdings outside of Zharr-Naggrund, and only meagre ones within, but had still carved out moderate prestige by selling their unique services to those seeking to raid colder climates such as Kislev and Norsca or wishing to raid during winter.  Krazk grimaced at the thought remembering how he’d had to sell one of his great grandnieces to be married to Khorr’s grandson in exchange for the services of a Coldhand Icemage three months ago, only for the raiding party’s ironclad to be sunk by an iceberg a week out of port.  Of course, as a Dawi Zharr Krazk had to much decorum to open accuse the Coldhands, instead opting to attack the rival clan indirectly and subtly.

He took another drink from his goblet, now savouring a fine Bretonian red, the Bugman’s long drank, using it to hide his smile of malice from his rival.  He had thought long and hard about how to exact his revenge on the Coldhands and to his chagrin he’d had to enlist the aid of cult of Nurgle.  Though the Dawi Zharr venerated Hashut as supreme, they were wise enough to know not to risk angering the other gods of Chaos.  Though Hashut’s temple stood proudest atop Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, they had built an entire complex of lesser temples to the other gods as way of respect, and shrines to them could be found throughout the main ziggurat in hidden halls and chambers.  Even the duplicitous Horned Rat had a ziggurat, though very few attendants.  Most Dawi Zharr paid respect to the other gods to avoid drawing their ire, but not so much as to draw their attention either, but there were those who gave themselves wholly over to the worship of the other gods and it was they who formed the priesthood and temple guards of the lesser temples.  For the most part mainstream society shunned them and only came into contact with them when paying the other gods respect or when they marched to war alongside their sane Hashut-worshiping brethren, but sometimes they could be valuable allies in the constant power struggles between the Prophets and the clans.  Weapons blessed by the priests of Khorne were more deadly, sorcerous components by Tzeentchians more potent and so forth.  But just as they could be a boon to your own assets, they could also be a curse upon your foes.  Such was Krazk’s plan; in his aspect of the Plaguebringer, they were to taint the lands the Coldhands were allowed this festival so that they would wither in the coming years and bring great shame upon the clan.

Composing himself, he lowered the goblet and raised it to Khorr as the latter started to ascend the stair ahead of him.  The ziggurat that formed Mingol Zharr-Zaggrund was as large as a mountain and though the ascent was far less arduous than that of an actual mountain, it still took a considerable time to traverse and by the time they reached the penultimate level the sun hung low in the sky.  The final level was Hashut’s temple and only those consecrated could enter.  Cursing his half petrified limbs, Krazk alighted from his palanquin and continued on his journey up into the black marbled edifice, leaning heavily on his skull topped staff.

He entered in through the southern portal, joining in the procession of the other Sorcerer Prophets as the passed through the Avenue of Kings, the great hallway lined with the petrified bodies of all the High Prophets were placed in high honour.  Dawi Zharr were a long lived race and as such many of the plinths had yet to be filled as all the prophets eyed the empty ones jealously.  As he passed through the open brass gates at the end, the heat from the furnaces hit him in the face like a wall.  The hall could have swallowed even the grandest of manning palaces but even at this distance the heat from the pillar of flame that ran through the centre of the ziggurat singed his beard.  Making the sign of the bull horns, he shuffled off to his allotted place and knelt on the warm stone floor.

The Dawi Zharr were a proud and arrogant kind, loath to submit to anyone and any sign of supplication to another was seen as weakness, but even they were humble enough to submit before the Dark Father.  Not even the mightiest were crazed enough to place themselves as equal with a god.  Bowing his head he began chanting a prayer to Hashut, awaiting the last few prophets to arrive.  At the appointed time the temple doors would be sealed and for eleven days the prophets would fast in silence in preparation for the Harvest Ritual.  On the dawn of the twelfth day, the doors would be opened and young Astragoth, the new high priest would lead those that survived the fast outside to take up their positions around the bronze bull statue atop the temple.

This year only three prophets fell to the fast, a good sign and fortunately for Krazk, Khorr was not one of the three – Krazk wanted him to know the misfortunes that would befall his clan these coming years.  Singing his appointed hymn, Krazk took up his position on one of the stone benches and broke his fast with a loaf of stone bread baked from this year’s harvest.  When the sun reached its zenith, as one the assembly turned their gaze north and a silence fell over them.  On cue, herded by masked acolytes of both Hashut and Slaanesh, ears of corn and barely woven into their beards herded up twelve times six slaves up the stairs, dragging a statue of the Dark Prince followed by a second group of slaves numbering six times twelves.  Each and every slave had been mutilated, its hands and feet cut off and iron shoes shaped like hooves hammered in their place.  Half the slaves were daubed with the rune of Hashut in blood and wore bronze masks fashioned in the shape of a bull while the other half were daube with Slaanesh’s glyph and wore silver goat masks.  Under the whips of their twelve overseers, the slaves cavorted around the pyre of wood and harvested food that had been set between the two gods’ statues.  A horn blared twelve times and was answered by six trumpets and as the last clarion faded away, twelve acolytes of Hashut marched forth from the temple, each baring a torch lit from the flaming pillar while six attendants of Slaanesh baring flasks of oil sprang up the stairs.  The eighteen priests took up their positions and the assembly began to chant once more as the slaves continued to dance.

Astragoth rose from his throne below the bull and took his hammer.  Turning to a great gong he struck it six times and with each strike a flask was thrown onto the pyre.  Twelve times more he struck the gong, shouting Hashut’s name each time, and on the twelfth, as one the torch bearers tossed their charges onto the pyre.  The oil soaked wood and food ignighted with a whoosh, driving the slaves back.  If they hadn’t had their tongues torn from their mouths and their eyes gouged from their skulls, they would have screamed in terror.  As it was they could only cringe away from the sudden heat as it bloomed, and then towards it as their handler whipped them for their impudence.  Given the choice between the fire and the whip, the slaves all chose the fire and one by one threw themselves onto the pyre.

The assembled prophets started a new chant as the twisted bodies started to burn, and setting aside his hammer, Astragoth took up a scythe.  Ordinarily he would never have touched such a tool, but as it was required for the finale part of the ritual he bore it stoically and without complaint.  The twelve handlers stepped up to the pyre, so close that their beards started to smoulder.  Uttering a dark chant in a voice too low for any save the gods to hear, Astragoth stomped from one handler to another, striking each with a single swipe of the scythe, beheading them.

As the final blow fell, he screamed one last word and the whole ziggurat started to shake.  There was a colossal boom, and from the temple sprang a pillar of fire, spewing ash that darkened the sky.  The whole valley in which Zharr-Naggrund sat shook and Krazk and the other prophets turned their gazes outward to see smaller ziggurats, ritually placed throughout the valley answer Mingol Zharr-Naggrund with fire pillars of their own.  An almighty crack echoed throughout the valley and on cue ash clouds billowed over the crags known as the Hoofcleft than ringed it, blotting out the last of the sunlight and plunging the land into darkness.

The ritual complete, Astragoth cast the scythe into the flames and turned back to the temple, leading the prophets back inside to the customary feast that followed the ritual.  As he took his place in the procession, Krazkh smirked, looking forward to devouring this year’s bounty to end this festival’s fast and as he passed under the bronze bull he offered up a silent prayer to Hashut that the great deeds of his clan would be recognised with the appropriate land tithes and the feasts end.

…for Chaos is a wheel and as surely as a chariot grinds the mud so to are we ground by Chaos.  And as the Star has eight points, so to does the Wheel have eight spokes.  The principal spokes are that of Rage, Desire, Despair and Hubris just as the principal Gods are Khorne, Slaanesh, Nurgle and Tzeentch.  And as the lesser Gods are named Necoho, Zuvassin, The Horned Rat and Hashut, the lesser spokes I name Nihilism, Anarchy, Ruin and Dominion.  For where rage against order and desire for freedom meet, mortals throw off the shackles of organised region; where desire to know what will happen meets the means to lead others to despair, mortals will throw the plans of others into disarray; where the despair at a loss meets the hubris that another is more deserving, mortals will seek to undo the fortunes of friend and foe alike; when the hubris that places one above another meets the rage that follows the discovery that this is not so, mortals will seek to set this right and subjugate all.  And as surely as the wheel turns about the spoke, so to does Chaos turn around Malal who I name Malignancy for it is the very nature of Chaos to turn upon itself and be self destructive.  And as the wheel turns about its axel, Chaos turns in a malignant cycle, each spoke chasing the one next to it.  Now one spoke is on top, now another, then another, forever turning.  And as no spoke may ever catch another, nor may it sit at the top of the turning wheel, so to can none of the Gods cast down another forever and no God can ever remain supreme.  Only by breaking the wheel can the cycle end, but to do so is doom for if the wheel is broken it is no longer a wheel.”

– a heretical text by an unknown author which was scratched into a hull plate from a Thinderfire Battlebarge.  The hull plate was discovered washed up fifty miles north-east of the Uzkulak port with no sign of the ship it came from.  It is now housed in the White Archives* in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund along with numerous other heretical texts collected by the Dawi Zharr during their long history.

*The White Archives is a naturally occurring immense chamber of white marble found deep within the heart of Zharr-Naggrund that stores artefacts that the Sorcerer-Prophets deem to dangerous for the general population to know about but which they do not wish to destroy, either because that would be more dangerous, that they might be of use in dire times or in the case of prophecies, books and other texts so that they can be studied by sanctified scholars in the hope that some useful knowledge may be gleaned from them for the betterment of the Empire