Bloody Rain: Chapter I
As I stood on the keep's ramparts, feeling the winds of Avelorn whipping through my hair, I thought for a moment.
Was this what His Majesty, King Malekith and his blessed mother had seen, all those years ago, before the treachery of our kin had forced them to leave these shores? Or had Avelorn changed, like practically everything else?
Merciless Khaine had kept us strong, because we kept strong in the faith, and now we were back. Further inland than any raiding party had gone for so very long. We had established ourselves on our ancestral shores, once again bringing war to these hallowed lands.
But in truth … this was not my home.
I know so many other Drucchi still think that Ulthuan is their real home, but I don't. Naggaroth made us what we are, and Khaine has shown his pleasure at this by making our people strong and fierce. And so, once this war is over, I will return to Naggaroth ... leaving Ulthuan in ruins.
Burning, charred ... desolate. Nothing will be heard there except the mad gibbering of the last of our treasonous cousins eking out their miserable existences in squalor and filth and the wailing of the bereaved. Provided any of them are left alive at all, that is. Somehow, I doubt that. After all, this is no mere raid or a simple war. This is genocide ... for the greater glory of Khaine and to avenge the wrong done to King Malekith.
All for wrongs comitted many, many years before I was even born.
Yet there I was, taking part in a war that had gone on since before my parents had been conceived, standing on the battlements of a keep in Avelorn. Like most of our keeps in Ulthuan it was solid, but not nearly as solid as most of us would have liked. With more time, we'd have added stronger outer defences, traps, killing zones ...
We'd have solid garrisons in all of the keeps, instead of the second-rate, half-hearted wastrels marching back and forth, down in front of me, as if they were proper soldiers. In fact, I doubted if they could stop a sickly Skaven. I sneered in disgust and shook my head, turning to head back inside the central keep. Rain was coming. I could feel it, and the winds of Dhar were picking up because of it. Nonetheless, I was in no mood to get drenched while standing guard on the walls when the ridiculous pawns passing themselves off as troops down below could do the job just as efficiently.
"You there," I said and pointed to a scrawny looking male armed with a repeating crossbow. "Take my place. Shout if you see anything worth bothering with."
He nodded respectfully and took my place on the battlement as I headed inside, rubbing my hands together. As if I didn't hate the accursed students of Aqshy already, I found myself realizing an entirely new kind of loathing for them as my fingers felt cold and numb. At least they never felt cold ... except perhaps in death. That, at least, was a small consolation. That at the end, they would feel twice as cold as everyone else. Filthy human upstarts, worthless wastes of flesh and bone. Hardly even worth the effort of enslaving, with their incessant delusions of grandeur and mindless, intolerable belief in their own superiority. Their one redeeming factor as slaves is their prolific rate of procreation. You can kill one for sport or pleasure and it'll only take a mere twelve to fourteen years before their dirty little offspring can take over and do the same work. Barely the time it takes to blink.
But their blood is so ... thin. My sister is a Bride of Khaine, and she wouldn't demean our great Lord by offering him such useless blood in sacrifice. That of our kin ... or that of the dwarves will do.
I sat down by the fireplace and rubbed my hands together again to get some warmth. Outside, the first raindrops fell and a strong wind began whipping against the walls, making the banners flutter.
I wasn't the only one who had the bright idea of getting warm, either. A goblin had fallen asleep with his head resting on the belly of one of his squigs over in one corner. At least the squig looked well fed ... so it was probably reasonably safe to sleep that way.
War really makes for the strangest allies. Orcs and goblins ... Norsemen ... it would have been inconceivable a few years ago, but King Malekith is wiser than any of us, and by offering the warlord of the North and the greenskins what they wanted, he made them agree to an alliance. To him, only one thing matters, however, and that is revenge for the injustice done to him. It is a goal all true Drucchi must labour ceaselessly to reach, and so we fight ... and we die.
But while we suffer casualties, they are nothing compared to what the natives of Ulthuan suffer. There is no such thing as 'civilians' in this war.
Again I rubbed my hands together. At least the cold was slowly leaving my body. I could have done with a hot meal and some good wine, though, but in war one must suffer deprivations far worse than that and for the moment, I settled for simply getting warm again.
The sound of heavy armoured boots on the staircase made me look to the side. A warrior in heavy armour was coming down from the roof. He leaned his heavy weapon against the largest, most solidly built chair and sat down ... nodding curtly.
"You look cold, Sorceress," he growled.
"So do you, Chosen of the Changer," I replied, returning the curt nod.
The chosen chuckled and smiled crookedly. "Holding a keep is dreary work. I'd prefer to be out there killing my enemies face to face," he said and leaned forward to make the most of the fire from the fireplace.
"I know the feeling. The side that stays within its own fortifications is beaten," I said and shrugged.
The chosen raised an eyebrow. "That's not bad tactical thinking. I wouldn't have expected that …"
"… from a sorceress," I chuckled. "I read books. It is one of the prime dictums of the Precepts of Battle as laid down Dreadlord Ashakh'vin, almost seven centuries ago."
The chosen nodded. "Dreadlord. That's what you dark elves call your generals, I believe. He was right. But we need a base of operations and this keep is strong and will serve us well when we expand."
We sat there quietly for a while, letting the heat from the fire slowly seep into us both. I looked at the Norseman next to me again as the firelight played over his face. He was rugged … even by the dreadfully unattractive standards of humanity, but there was a fierce strength about him that commanded a lot of respect. He had hard eyes and scars enough that no doubt could remain of his endurance and competence in battle.
No one got that many scars and survived … without being capable.
He was hideous, as all humans are yet he commanded respect for his prowess. Only a fool ever underestimated a Chosen.
"I'm Mortayi," I said, matter-of-factly. "Mortayi Arkyss."
He nodded. "I'm Berimund," he said. I didn't get a last name … but in truth, I don't know if the Norsemen use such things.
I was about to answer him when the door was thrown open. The guard with the repeater crossbow burst in, gasping for air. He had a nasty gash on his forehead and he looked faint.
"Gunfire … outside," he wheezed and leaned heavily against the doorframe.
I looked at Berimund and he looked back. He simply nodded. We both knew what this meant. A dwarf had arrived at the gates, and if one was there … his friends were certain to be right behind him.
Berimund grabbed his weapon and I clenched my staff, sending a brief prayer to Khaine for good fortune in battle.
I had no idea what was coming …
Bloody Rain: Chapter II
Berimund was already out the door. I had to expect such from a Chosen, I suppose. Heavy, hellforged armour and an ingrained thirst for open battle probably made caution impossible for him to exercise. Fine by me … it meant the dwarf outside and probably most of his friends would be aiming at that broad barrel-chest clad in metal rather than at myself.
Or so I thought, naïve as I was.
I pushed open the door and walked out onto the battlements. The motley array of defenders assembled was indicative of the current war. I saw greenskin shamans, all sticking close to the wall where their short stature would make them invisible to the attackers beneath us. At least one of their squig-training brethren was desperately trying to convince a ferocious looking, thoroughly ugly beast consisting mainly of teeth not to eat him but the attackers down below. I think it was the same goblin I saw asleep indoors a few moments earlier but to be absolutely honest, I wasn't sure. All goblins look more or less the same to me anyway. Out on one of the forward artillery towers, I saw a gigantic orc wielding a sword and shield clad in the most garish, yellow armour. He was beating his weapon against his shield, roaring what I could only guess was a string of orcish obscenities at the attacking forces.
The first raindrops fell as I let my eyes continue along the line of defenders. The greenskins were all more or less grouped together … as they usually did. Defence never sat particularly well with that race and they were no doubt all eager to take the fight to the enemy.
They'd probably have their chance.
They weren't the only defenders anyway. There were drucchi present as well, apart from myself. A couple of darkly armoured blackguards leaned against long halberds, waiting stoically for the charge against the walls that was sure to come, and as the rain got heavier, I noticed a bride of Khaine, crouched on top of one of the parapets. For a second, I thought it was my sister, but as I looked closer I realized it wasn't. Shrugging, it made little difference to me. I saw at least four other sorceresses as well, and a disciple was walking along the line, stopping at every drucchi defender to administer the rites of slaughter. Soon, he reached me and I bowed my head, dutifully paying respect to our Lord.
"Die well," the brief prayer ended.
I intended to. But not today. That was the whole point of the rites. To constantly remind each drucchi that death would inevitably come, and it would be bloody and painful … and that in that one split second before the end, each and every servant of Khaine would face the ultimate test of faith and courage. Would we embrace Death … or would we try to escape from it like cowards.
To die well or to die … badly.
Those who did the latter could look forward to an eternity of agony. Those who did the former could look forward to an eternity of inflicting it. Figure out the rest for yourself.
I turned my head to the right. Berimund was rallying the Norsemen and getting them ready. I noticed we had an inordinate amount of zealots present. I didn't mind. While they didn't pay homage to Khaine, they were efficient healers and in the battle that was to come within moments, we'd need all the healing we could get.
A shot rang out.
Dwarves and their predilection for gunpowder.
I wrinkled my nose as the rain became a torrential downpour. Lightning split the sky above me. At least that would make their use of canon more difficult. Dwarven engineering could do a lot of things … but it still couldn't make wet gunpowder burn. I smiled. This would be a contest decided mainly by steel against steel … and magic against magic.
Not by unsavoury, barbaric gunpowder. Crude, inefficient substance that it was. Lots of noise, lots of smoke, big canon … you'd think dwarves were collectively trying to compensate for something.
The deeper workings of dwarven thinking was irrelevant anyway. Out in the distance, I could see a dark, amorphous mass slowly moving into view. The enemy. And there were a lot of them. Narrowing my eyes, I could see we were at least outnumbered three to one … probably a lot more. But we had the keep to help us at least.
Some of the greenskins were chuckling excitedly at the prospect of a fight. Some of the Norsemen were already blooding themselves, carving shallow wounds in their flesh and watching them close to shallow, writhing scars, as they searched for hidden clues from their master, the great Mutator. Thunder split the sky and lightning burst over the keep, and I felt bitterly cold already.
One of the guards fell off the parapet. The way he fell showed me clearly that he was dead before he hit the ground. He didn't even try to stop his own fall. Damned that dwarf down there … damned him and his long rifle, and damned the thunder for hiding the sound of the shot. At least it wouldn't be much longer before the powder would be too wet to fire. That, of course, did not stop magic from working. One of the major reasons why I find gunpowder ridiculously overrated. It depends on the weather to work properly. Pathetic … as the races using it.
Pathetic but numerous, particularly in the case of humans. If you ask me, they are worse than Skaven. They breed like rats too, but unlike the Skaven who are at least honest in their villainy, the human race has this self-righteous, sanctimonious and utterly egocentric take on the world.
Everything must acknowledge how much better they are at everything, simply because they say so.
Well, the Drucchi will not bend to them, and we will see who laughs last, when they are being worked to death in the mines of Hag Graef or laboring to construct black arks at Clar Karond.
Then the rotten little bastards will see who their real masters are, and they'll weep for their misfortune.
And no one will listen.
The thought made me almost forget the rain, and I found myself smiling. Maybe I would keep a couple of them as toys when I went back to Ghrond after the war, but of course … that was still in the future and right now, I was still facing a numerically superior attacking force.
With a ram.
The bastards were pulling it up closer, all the while a couple of goblins were struggling frantically to get some hot oil ready on the outer walls.
For a moment, I thought they just might make it. Then out of nowhere, a flash of steel cut them down like grain before a reaper's scythe.
"We have enemies inside the perimeter," I said, looking sidelong at Berimund, realizing his night vision was unlikely to be as good as that of a drucchi. "We're not going to have any oil on the outer walls."
I don't speak the language of the Norsemen, and at that moment, I felt grateful or I'm fairly certain my eardrums would have been irreparably damaged from the string of obscenities that came from the Chosen. I couldn't blame him. Without the oil, it was only a matter of time before we'd be fighting around the inner defences, and outnumbered, we'd be in serious trouble.
"Did you see which enemy?"
"A human, I believe. They all move like they've pissed themselves."
"Watch it, Sorceress, or I'll have your tongue cut out."
I smiled crookedly. "With all due respect, Berimund … you are hardly human anymore."
He nodded, slowly. "True. The Changer has been generous to me."
I didn't answer that. The first heavy thump of the ram against the outer gate made sure more immediate concerns were on my mind.
I could see fighting on the outer walls. A black guard caught the human out in the open and ran him through with her polearm … all the way to the hilt. Then she reached up with one mailed hand and tore the human's throat out, before toppling the corpse over the parapets and down onto the rest of the attackers.
She shouted in defiance and began retreating to the inner keep and I found myself thinking she'd missed her calling. Someone like that would have made a fine maibd.
She had nearly crossed the courtyard … nearly … when I saw two shapes on the outer walls. One walked on four legs, the other upright … although the upright shape crouched only a moment later and leapt, from the wall and down into the courtyard. The blackguard hadn't seen this new attacker and I leaned forwards against the parapet.
"BEHIND YOU!! WHITE LION!" I tried … but in vain. The large, two handed axe of the Chracian swine cut the blackguard down and she fell forward, dropping her weapon.
I shook my head and sighed. The damnable fool was going to get herself killed, and we were badly enough outnumbered as it was. Her bravery and skill on the outer walls meant she was worth saving though and I closed my eyes, visualizing the White Lion and his filthy feline pet before my minds eye.
Dhar ran through me and filled me up, from my toes to the tips of my hair … and I extended my hands.
A dark pit of shadows opened beneath their feet and while they clamoured for safety, dark tendrils of power reached up and grasped them, stripping flesh from bone and forcing blood from their veins.
The pathetic, pained mewls of the feline were sweet enough but not half as nice as the horrified screams of agony escaping the lips of its master.
Sadly, they ended all too soon. A surviving goblin on the outer walls pulled taught his bow and sent three arrows into the back of the warrior in the courtyard in short order. He fell … dead and already forgotten.
It was only then that I realized the Blackguard was still moving, trying to pull herself to the safety of the inner keep. I found myself raising an eyebrow in surprise. That particular drucchi had Khaine's good will backing her, no doubt about that. I was about to call out for someone to go help her get to safety, but I was too late. The doors to the inner keep opened and a reedy looking human wearing the accoutrements of a zealot ran out towards the fallen drucchi warrior.
She managed to patch up the blackguard just in time to get her indoors … and then the front gates came crashing down.
"That happened too fast!" Berimund grumbled. I wasn't sure who he was talking to until I noticed a long, green nose sticking out around the Chosen's knee.
"Yer … too fast. Deyz cheatin'!" the goblin complained. "So wez gunna cheat too!"
I wasn't above eavesdropping but there were more important issues at hand. A lot of them, in fact … and they were all streaming in through the front gate.
Bloody Rain: Chapter III
There were too many of them down there to accurately count. The sight was repugnant and reminded me of maggots infesting a wound. Writhing, squirming …
They left the ram at the front gate. I don't know for sure, but I think they'd built it too wide to get through the gate proper and consequently, they ended up spilling through like so much garbage, hacking and hammering at the inner gates with swords and axes.
Swords never were much use in such endeavors.
Axes, however, are a different matter. Particularly when wielded by more or less rabid dwarves.
I hated them. I hated humans as well. Verminous, filthy creatures that they were. And right now, I was besieged by both these races. Worst of all, however, were the high elves out there. I cast a few simple spells, mostly to annoy them, while I contemplated what to do next, only to notice four figures, clad in bright red robes, dropping out of the enemy formation below.
Bright wizards.
That damnable wind of Aqshy.
I barely managed to shout a warning and duck for cover, before the first explosive fireballs slammed into the stonework behind me. Sparks hit me. So did splinters. I'd have to get the cuts looked at later … if there even was a 'later'. The fireballs would keep everyone ducking for cover, and in the meantime, the assault on the gate would go ahead without interference. And if that happened … we were all dead.
Berimund hissed another curse at the attackers, then looked at the goblin he'd been talking to a moment before.
Then pointed to me.
"You keep her standing, Lagrom … I don't care how! Keep her alive, while I get us some blasted oil!" he ordered, then crouched and made a dash for it.
The goblin leered at the chosen as he made it through the door to the inner keep. Then he looked at me and narrowed his eyes.
"Diz iz eazy! Yer da wun onna wall. Not me. Iz stayin' down 'ere, YOU getz up dere an' do yer majic fing," he said, sourly.
What choice did I have? Stay down and get blasted into oblivion or trust in the healing abilities of a goblin?
I cursed my rotten luck and nodded to the goblin, closing my eyes. Yet again, I had to summon the power of Dhar. And this time, I'd be more or less alone in attacking. Against a whole raiding party. If I survived this, I'd have a few things to tell Berimund.
"EVERYONE ON THE PARAPET!" I shouted, still keeping my eyes closed. "KEEP THEM OFF THE WALLS!"
With that, I stood up. Almost instantly, a dwarven bullet went through my throat. A long, sharp arrow hammered into my midsection. I stumbled … nearly fell.
Down below, they roared in triumph … and I could feel blood rushing out my nostrils and down my face … not to mention I could feel it run down my throat and into my lungs and ruined stomach. Air wheezed out of me, and I couldn't fill my lungs. The pain was beyond description and my hands flew to my throat in a feeble attempt to staunch the flow of blood. I had to fight to stay on my feet … and for a second, I could feel myself panicking.
Just for a second …
"Die well!"
"Oh no ya don't! Gork'z gots use fer ya yet!" I reedy voice wheezed behind me.
Something touched me. I don't know what it was, except that for a second, I felt nauseous. I retched … and the bullet came out between my teeth and landed on the parapet. The arrow in my stomach was forced out. It was pure agony, but the wounds were healing and I could feel it.
Blood flowed out between my teeth as I gritted them in rage, narrowing my eyes and looking down below into the throng. The seething, writhing mass, like maggots in an open, putrid sore.
"Die well!"
The words kept ringing in my head. I raised my hands above my head, snarling in absolute fury. I must have looked like something out of legends. Blood everywhere, Dhar rushing through me and black tendrils snaking all over my body …
I didn't care about the chance that I might get hit again. All I cared about was revenge.
So I released my spell.
Down below, pandemonium reigned. I think they had just expected me to fall over and die. Another bullet slammed into me, this time in my shoulder. It too was forced out by the magic of the goblin behind me just as a throwing axe graced one of my arms. The pain, by now, was making it hard to think, but my next spell … and my next … made them scramble from the gates. The four bright wizards realized they had to do something, and I could see them preparing … and I knew that I could never stand up to the forces released by all four of them. Even though I summoned Dhar to envelop me in a protective shroud, I knew it wouldn't be enough.
I wouldn't make it.
I'd die in this rotten hole of a keep.
I smiled.
"Die well!"
Yes … I would. I wasn't afraid. I'd fling a spell at Death in defiance … and then come willingly. But not yet.
Not … quite … yet …
I couldn't reach the bright wizards. My magic wouldn't reach that far, but I could reach several of their damnable friends. So I looked down and saw a high elf wearing the elaborate robes of an Archmage of Saphery almost hauling himself away. He'd been caught in my spells, too close to the gate and now he'd pay the price. I focused all my anger on him. All my rage was released in shards of ice, flung at him. They cut his robes to ribbons … sent him tumbling to his knees. A warrior priest of Sigmar ran over to him … fell to her knees, hoping to save him. I would not let that happen, and I released a spell at the newcomer, as yet another arrow hit me … and another … and another.
My knees gave out … at last. So this was it. This was how it felt to die. It wasn't nearly as terrible as I had been led to believe. I smiled and I felt Dhar caressing me one more time …
The one true love of my life.
Magic …
I released it. All of it. Let the very essence of Dhar, stored up within me, escape me. As I fell from the parapet, I saw the Archmage disintegrate in a red and black explosion, and I smiled. One last victory. Just one.
I hit the ground.
My bones shattered … my body was broken.
Something reached out with a coarse hand even as my field of vision rapidly narrowed. It enveloped me completely and it felt as if I was being lifted.
Then the light went out.
I died …
I died well.
Not running from it, not trying to escape it. I let it claim me when my time came. Lord Khaine would approve.
"I TOLDZ YA … Mork's not dun wif ya yet. Now quit yer slackin'!"
I opened my eyes. I was back on the walls. Somehow … somehow I was back on the walls and the goblin was eyeballing me. I coughed … wanted to answer him, but nothing but blood came up. I tried to stand and to my surprise, I found that my legs would support me, and that while I was badly bruised, I had no broken bones.
Berimund, now wearing his helmet and standing by a large cauldron, rapidly being warmed by a magus, nodded to me as an arrow plinked off his armour. He was easily recognized.
"Go inside. You need to recover. You'll do us no good if you die again," he said, flatly. His voice was distorted by the helmet … made it sound even rougher. At that moment, I understood the fear factor of the Chosen of Chaos. He absolutely towered over me.
I just nodded and staggered to the door. In the background, the screams of men and women covered in boiling oil were as sweet as music.
So I had a few moments to recover. Not long, but … I'd take what I could get.
I practically fell through the door, trying to support myself against a table just inside.
"Now youz lot lissen an' lissen GUD, or Iz gunna break sum bones an' stomp sum froats!" a powerful, hoarse voice barked.
I looked towards the stairs. It had come from downstairs. My legs felt stiff and I was hurting in places I hadn't known I had only a few minutes ago, but whatever was going on downstairs seemed important.
That ork … that huge ork in the yellow armour was there. So were practically every close assault warrior in the keep. Marauders, blackguards, maibds, several gaudily painted orcs …
But none of them seemed to want to argue with the biggest ork of the lot. The yellow one.
"Right. Yerz all a sorry bunch o' skinny gitz!" the yellow-plated ork growled. "But diz is how we do it!"
A marauder dared to raise his non-mutated hand. "Why not let them come to us, like Berimund said?" he asked and was rewarded with a blow from the ork's shield so hard he was sent tumbling into the wall.
"DIZ IS HOW WE DO DIZ!" the ork roared. "IZ da biggest, da meanest an' da greenest an' no 'umie runtz gonna tell me 'ow ta fight. Iz gotz it wiv stayin' in 'ere, waitin' fer dem ta get in. We go out diz small door, we go around da back o' da lot, an' we SQUISH'EM! GOTZ IT!?"
The Marauder picked himself up, nodding in a dazed kind of way, before spitting out two teeth. "Sure … we'll do it your way," he groaned.
"Datz more like it. Any of da rest o' you lot wotz got any ar-goo-mentz?" he sneered, narrowing his eyes and looking at everyone in turn.
No one else protested.
This … I had to see.
Bloody Rain: Chapter IV
I wanted to see when the orc's flanking attack hit home. Frankly, it struck me as rather unbelievable to see an orc … even a black orc … show any kind of tactical finesse whatsoever, but at least it had been literally hammered home with a shield spike and typical orcish sense of diplomacy.
My way or the die way …
Still, with the attackers lacking a ram, this just might work if they got enough support from the walls.
That's when the weak spot of the orc's tactics struck me. He'd need support from the walls. He'd need every single crossbow in the keep to rain down bolts on those below, and he'd need every available sorceress or magus up there as well.
Cursing my rotten luck, I turned around and ran up the stairs. I had to get news to Berimund and whoever else was up there in time, so that some kind of support could be organized in a hurry. Rushing up the stairs again, I realized that my recent brush with death had left me weakened. I was out of breath simply from ascending the staircase, and I was seeing little black spots in front of my eyes, but I had to deal with that later.
I pushed the door open and dove outside, just as an errant fireball smashed a gargoyle spout off the parapet. I was in no mood to get in the way of one of those, and I was only confirmed in this when I saw the number of dead lining the walls. Blood was flowing freely, and no doubt Khaine was pleased … but most of the blood flowing belonged to us, not the damnable dwarves, humans and high elves by the front gate.
I heard an ominous creak. Something told me that the gate wouldn't last that much longer and I crawled through the blood and bile, pushing aside corpses, until I reached the corner of the tower.
"BERIMUND!" I called out.
"I TOLD YOU TO GO INSIDE AND REST, DAMMIT!" came the answer.
"I KNOW! But this big yellow orc has taken practically all our assault forces out the back door and he's about to hit their rear. We need to give him some kind of support!"
"When I find him, I'm going to tie his fangs into a knot and kick him over the outer walls!"
"If it works, then we're off the hook. And if it doesn't, I doubt you'll get the chance!" I answered.
There was a moment of silence, then a hoarse, deep laughter. "There is that. Alright everyone, you heard her. CEASE FIRE! Everyone be ready to target those right in front of the gate on my mark in five … four … three … two … one …"
The screams I could hear from down below were sweet music to my ears.
Screams and curses.
I crawled around the corner and peeked over the parapet. A few arrows came the other way, as did a couple of bullets, but Berimund had just emptied another load of boiling oil on top of them, and their healers were trying desperately to patch up the gruesome wounds in their ranks. It was an entirely pleasing thing to see high elves, writhing on the ground as their skin peeled off them in large, moist flakes … their pristine faces nearly liquified, their flesh falling off their hands and arms in lumps.
I found myself licking my lips and smiling.
"More oil … more oil, Berimund," I wheezed.
The Chosen didn't answer. Instead, pink fire began raining down from the skies, landing amidst the attackers down below. Their front rank almost disintegrated and the magus that had helped heat the oil laughed sadistically.
I liked him already.
I got up and added my own magic, weakened though I was, to the onslaught. The result was nothing short of beautiful. Their front rank broken and the healers unable to keep up, they began falling back.
It would have been possible for them to do so in reasonably good order, while cutting their losses, under cover from the long range support of their bright wizards, shadow warriors and engineers …
…
… but then it happened.
Roaring a "WAAAGH" as loudly as I've ever heard it from a greenskin, the yellow-armored orc and his assault team reached the outer walls at the exact moment when the enemy was trying to retreat through the gate.
The slaughter that ensued was … graphic.
… and pleasing.
Highly pleasing.
The orc leveled a kick at the chest of the first bright wizard in his path. Humanity is frail. The wizard's chest collapsed under the pressure and blood sprayed from the man's nose and mouth as he fell backwards. A half-controlled spell went off, instantly engulfing the dying wizard in the flames of Aqshy and I snickered at the poetic justice of it all.
A maibd summersaulted gracefully over the orc as he went to work in his next target. Her long knives found a mark in the chest of a shadow warrior who simply went down in a disorderly heap. She swung around herself in a perfect arc and took the head clean off the shoulders of a human in a long leather coat and broad brimmed hat.
He had held a pistol in his hand … in his death-throes he fired it and the bullet went directly through the skull of another bright wizard.
His head practically disintegrated.
I clapped.
I cheered.
And I ran it back inside. Down the stairs … down and outside.
By that time, it was all over. The assault team were walking back inside.
Stepping on the melted face and upper chest of a sword master, I heard him groan. He was still alive … an opportunity far too good to miss. So I went down on one knee next to him and smiled as I leaned further down, putting my lips to his ears.
"Die well … cousin!" I whispered.
With that, I rammed my hand into his ruined chest cavity and pulled out his heart. I felt it beat once … twice … three times between my fingers. Then it stopped. The gurgling scream he emitted I barely noticed. Instead, I simply looked at the blood flowing down my hand, and I licked my lips.
I wanted nothing more than to sink my teeth into this warm, delicious fleshy morsel …
Well, my parents always taught me that to deny oneself ones wishes is to act contrary to the racial instincts of the Druchii.
The blood was sweeter than fine wine. The flesh more tender and nourishing than the choiciest cold one morsels.
Blood spilled down my hand, and I marked my face anew, as an elite of the towers of sorcery in Ghrond. The bloody palmprint adorned my face, refreshened, and I smiled as I savored another bite of the heart in my hand.
The maibd walked past me looking envious as the rain washed the fresh blood down my neck and chest. She wanted a bite … but her face was unmarked and she made no attempt at challenging my right to the finest choice of flesh.
She understood her place in the greater scheme of the war. Of the army.
I smiled.
Either I could go inside, or I could …
…
No …
There was something that didn't quite fit.
Summoning Dhar once again to protect me in a sheath of magic, I walked through the front gates. After all, there was someone they had all forgotten about.
The one who fired the first shot.
If I was correct, he was still in hiding out there, scouting our positions, hoping the rain would keep us from finding him.
With the power of my untainted cousin's flesh fuelling my magic, I simply reached out and felt the filthy little creature, skulking as he was behind some bushes. Bushes that provided him with no protection. I stepped to the left … three quick steps, and I could see him.
And then I called upon Khaine. Not once, not twice … not even three times. Four times in all, I cursed the dwarf. He was not prepared for it and while he tried to escape, it was hopeless. With every step he took, I renewed my assault on him. Wounds opened on his face … in his chest …
After he'd run less than a hundred yards, he fell to his knees. He tried to bring his rifle to bear, but as he pointed it to me … it simply clicked.
There was no fear on his face when I reached him. For that, and for that alone I respected him. He was a worthier foe than the swords master whose heart I had partaken in. I found myself smiling at him.
He was dying … and he knew it.
He tried to get a potion bottle to his lips, but I simply swatted it away with my staff.
"Wet gun … powder. Bloody … bloody rain … " he gurgled, as blood oozed past his lips.
I reached down and picked a little of it off his lips as the light in his eyes faded. With it, I painted the rune of the fallen enemy on my shoulder-guards.
He of all the attackers … had died well.
Then I leaned back my head and enjoyed the sensation of the raindrops on my face. I closed my eyes and smiled, savouring the knowledge and sensation of still being alive.
Bloody rain indeed.