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Even as the host of Nagash’s herald marches to war, other armies gather: to the west, Arkhor raises an undead army, while, far to the north, Adrek gathers the Blood knights. In Mousillon, Jean prepares for war, while Bardanas – now a prisoner of Jean – attempts to escape his captivity. Yet even as these events take place, other forces come into play, forces from mortal nightmares. Reality itself is stretched thin, and all hell is ready to break loose.
The beast belched, clouds of flies escaping its lungs along with a cloud of green noxious gas. A smile slipped from its contorted features as the great monster surveyed the battlefield. He remembered when he had been a lesser daemon like those facing him, but those times were long gone. One more victory and he would be able to invade the petty mortal lands, spreading the word of his great lord and father.
He gripped his blade with hands slippery with pus, yet it was more for the look than anything. He wouldn't need to use it. But aesthetics were important; even if you were so mutated you looked like a pile of living saliva.
The vast mound of nurglings beneath him shifted as he moved further towards the edge, and he laughed, the deep rich sound tainted by the husky edge caused by hundreds of dead and living flies mixing with acidic vomit.
He had no qualms about it falling. It wouldn't hurt him: if he needed to, he could always use his powers. The powers his father had seen fit to grant him, his kind and loving father. Father Nurgle. His eternal lord ... but yet not a lord. A shepherd, perhaps. Where his rivals' gods herded their followers like cattle, his own god directed and instructed him.
His voice was full of the pride he always felt when surveying his host as he looked at his host far beneath him. "My children, prepare to make war. This night, the mortal lands shall fall to the majesty of father Nurgle. Brothers in His name, servants of His will. This day we shall have victory!"
One final victory. One last success ... that was all it took. A single force guarded the rift, a small force of Khornate daemons guarding a rift in time and space ... a rift created by the fabric of reality stretching beyond possible imagination, to such a state that mortal minds would cry to see the horrific perversion of all things ‘natural'.
After this day, it would all be easier: there would be prey, and Father Nurgle had blessed them with a land full of weak opponents.
One attack. That was all. And after that, chaos would reign supreme in Mousillon.
+++++
In the old chapel, a humanoid-goblin lifted a withered hand - a talon filled mess of stretched, mangled skin and muscle; compounded into a thin, long mass of bones, vaguely recognisable as a hand - an ancient dragon front limb ‘hand', with an ancient, scrawny, miniscule piece of withered skin wrinkling, stretched over the claw and the smallest amount of muscle and sinew ever found in any creature, living or dead. The rest of his body looked much the same, except his head, which looked like a fifty year old, scaly, war trophy. The ghoul's (or northern goblin) loincloth looked suspiciously like a small piece of plundered flesh. Then again, ‘scavenge' had been both its code of honour, and word of survival since young goblin-hood. It was surprising such a creature had come so far south from the Northern Wastes, but it was claimed throughout Mousillon and beyond, that there was a war coming, and such creatures were attracted instinctively. More plundering. But this was no ordinary war - the dark forces of the north gathered, and an uncontrolled Vampiric horde swept through the land, inevitable heralds of death and war, corruption and the end of much hope...
Unclenching his fist, Skinter cackled, letting the glass in his open hand glint in the setting sun, a sharp golden-coloured contrast to his dull, grimy hand - a mess of twisted muscle and flesh. Salvaged from the cold snow, which littered the desecrated chapel, like carelessly scattered blossom from a dying age, a last mark from a fading season; to the goblin, such an item was indeed a treasure. He cackled again, and tensed himself as if he were a cat preparing to leap. With surprising strength and agility for one of such a slight build, he suddenly leapt to a damaged ancient window, limbs spread out like a frogs, revealing his height - he was usually in a low crouch. Eyes glinting as he, with strength his appearance betrayed, and muscles unseen by the casual viewer, pulled and pulled at some more ancient stained glass until another piece lay in his weathered palm. Suddenly, Skinter skittered swiftly over the soft snow, stopping scampering suddenly at a strange, suspicious shadow. Skinter's large, piercing round, yellow eyes widened slightly, now a perfect mirror to the moon above. The cloaked figure threw back his black hood and, cackling harshly, raised his lethal scythe...
The scream rang through the long abandoned tunnels in the rock, a harsh reminder of the death that takes those men who seek to regain those most ancient of holds. The crow-like call, however, was an entirely useless waste of breath: there was no one to hear the creature. It called again. And this time, someone heard its cry ...
Mallobaude smiled as he made his way down towards the cavern, an expression that merely hade his face all the more shadowed and hideous. He wore no cloak or cowl today: what was the need?
His armour gleamed dully in the mid-morning as he strode down from one of Nagashizzar's hidden entrances, the wind blowing his chain mail behind him.
In his hand, he held a sword, a slightly green-coloured dull silver betraying the poison that coated it. Mallobaude had no need for secrecy, not now. Not now he had caught the herald's servant so close to Nagashizzar. Or was it the Herald? That was always the question ... who was who? The Herald relied upon secrecy, and Mallobaude couldn't help but admit, albeit grudgingly, that he did it well.
As he approached the floor of the valley, Mallobaude slowed slightly, unsure of what he would find. He was prepared for another vampire or a mortal, but what if it was something more than that?
There was a ruined chapel at the foot, its windows broken. Mallobaude carefully approached, sword at the ready: this would be his moment of testing.
As he entered, his eyes widened slightly, adjusting to the darkness. At first, he saw little but blackness ... then he made out shapes ... masonry. Small pieces of shattered glass. A gargoyle. What religion had existed here? Some kind of death cult? He had never heard of a gargoyle in what appeared to be a temple of the lady. His eyes adjusted further, and he scoured the darkness for his target. High, arched windows. A statue of the Lady- Mallobaude's eyes snapped back to the hunched gargoyle figure.
"Nice of you to join us, traitor," the figure pronounced, red eyes becoming clear as it turned to face the vampire Lord, vast, bat-like wings unfolding.
The Reaper's black scythe vanished as the powerful vampire sprang down from his pedestal; replaced by long claws and flickering magical energy. The Reaper's ancient face was bat-like, a vampiric creature from Hell.
The strong vampire's voice was harsh and grating. "So, Walach, how long have you known about me? Not long, I imagine ... very few vampires have even dared to ask after my master's moves."
Mallobaude frowned, watching the winged creature leap down lightly, talons ready for an attack. "Yes, you are correct. It was only after I realized it was physically impossible for the Herald to be in two places at once after I watched you talking to Adrek, and taking Coreaux's body: you lacked the same finesse the Herald had always possessed."
"I am the Herald!" the Reaper screeched, swiping clumsily with long claws. Clearly Mallobaude's talk had hit a nerve, and the veteran blood dragon smiled, dodging the claws with ease.
"Yes ... you are, in part. Two halves of the same whole. When was it that Nagash split his servant's soul, exposing you to the World outside a tormented mind?"
"How do you know?" The bat-like creature shrieked again, red eyes blazing like hellfire. Its wings swirled around it, forming a wall of defence as it advanced towards Mallobaude. "Tell me, Walach!"
The Lord of Blood Keep kept his composure, ignoring the slashing wings and ducking the crazed attacks. "When you were talking to Adrek, the Herald was gathering an army, wasn't he?" he asked casually, further provoking the maddened vampire.
"I am the Herald!" the Reaper hissed, though with a slight hint of doubt.
"No ... never. You lack his finesse, his style ... his magic. What is your best spell ... fireball?" Mallobaude mocked, but then paused, hand frozen momentarily. "Oh ... I forgot. Your infamous transformation. Bound magic. Nothing impressive, apart from a simple ability: one of many your half-brother possesses, Alath. And you think yourself lord of Mousillon? You are but a slave to Akhenaton, are you not?"
The vampire lost his footing, and Mallobaude took a step forwards. The wings were like lightning now, slashing insanely, clearly out of control. "My name!" it yelled - not a screech, now: a maddened, shrill shout of hate and despair. "You ... you know my name!"
"Should you be so surprised, Alath? Mallobaude of Mousillon has never given up the chase for knowledge and skill, however fruitless or difficult." The sarcasm cut deep, it appeared: Alath leapt into the air, flapping his wings madly as he sought higher ground ... clearly the vampire was so wrathful he was unable to fight well, and he knew it.
But then, he smiled, as if gaining an advantage over Mallobaude. "I would not be so quick to accuse and rain suspicions upon others ... Walach." The vampire smiled in saifsfaction, red eyes gleaming maliciously.
But it did not have the desired effect. Mallobaude smiled, a patronising expression, perhaps with a hint of pity. "You really don't understand, Alath, do you? This was never about knowledge ... it was about ending your existence. If I let you live, I am afraid I may lose the upcoming battle, and that is something I do not desire."
Alath seemed to calm slightly, accepting Mallobaude's words. He smiled. "Then let us fight, Walach!"
+++++
Battles in the Chaos Wastes are odd occurrences: for one thing, reality itself twists as battles take place: all it takes is a little willpower, and you can have hordes of daemons. If you were a greater daemon.
And, the beast was pleased to think; he was such a daemon. His name was enough to show that: not often did you find a lesser daemon with such a name as "Urtica Dioica Cirsium Pumilum" among the followers of Nurgle. Not an unintelligible name - Nurgle's gifted names tended to have a more natural feeling - but its length betrayed Urtica's high standing with his master.
And hopefully, today, father Nurgle would accept him into his highest of ranks. It was a gift to be even allowed to refer to the father as Nurgle and think independently, but Urtica had always desired more. Always.
And now, a lesser daemon guarded the portal to glory. This would be easy. From his pedestal, Urtica's pus-covered, boil-ridden; bulging hands gripped his sceptre tightly as the greater daemon leaned forwards, the Nurglings beneath him shifting slightly. The enemy host was ready for battle, and he smiled, saliva dripping onto his bloated ‘legs'.
Bloodletters. And a few chariots. Nothing major ... oh, and a Bloodthirster. Urtica would enjoy finishing off that beast.
Today Nurgle would look down through the heavens, and his bearded face would split into a smile as he watched his followers take the battle to the enemy.
+++++
Akhenaton hissed, watching his brother getting angrier. He wished he could intervene, but in his sceptre form, detached from his body, he was incredibly vulnerable. Even now, he was having trouble thinking apart from his body: visions of what he could see from his dragon kept flashing into his beleaguered mind.
However, this told him a lot: finally he knew the full truth, albeit a truth he would rather not have known. Smiling slightly, the shadowed figure watched Mallobaude adopt an attack position ...
+++++
Coreaux's eyes snapped open, feeling his magical bonds weaken ... he had a chance for freedom. Exerting his will, he slowly gathered energy, trying to hide what he was doing from the Herald. The magic was slippery and hard to grip, but it came nonetheless, a thin stream of energy, gathering in speed and power as more flooded in.
The Black Knight smiled, gently testing the limits of his bond. This would be easy, or at least to a certain degree of easiness.
More energy came in, and the vampire hastily formed a mental image of a ball of light gathering in intensity: there was no point in damaging himself by drawing too much energy without controlling it.
Another strand of energy flooded in, and Coreaux felt his eyes blaze with power. A smile twisted his face, and he stopped the flow.
Then he swiftly exerted his formidable will, gently easing the magical links apart with an intricate spell. When he was free, the Black knight let out a long sigh, and crouched next to the saddle, keeping in rhythm with the dragon's wing-beats. He slowly reached for the Damned Spear, but his hand couldn't touch it. Swearing under his breath, Coreaux let the light stream from his mind, and the bonds holding the spear broke open with a crack.
There was no way the Herald could have missed that noise. Magically summoning the spear to his hand, Coreaux felt warmth course through his body. He was prepared. Prepared for the fight of his life.
+++++
What Alath lacked in magical power, he made up for with skill in combat. His wings acted as a second set of arms while his lethal claws slashed at Mallobaude's armour, tearing the strong steel apart. His fangs gleamed; his bat-like face filled with triumph as every un-parried blow tore at Mallobaude's armour.
But Walach Harkon of Blood Keep was never known for his reluctance to fight: no, if anything he is known among his kindred as one of the more violent of his kind. While blows rained down upon his, he gripped his sword in an attack position, clearly ready to unleash a hail of blows as powerful as those he was suffering without cry or protest.
Alath smiled. This was too easy. The vampire's wings knocked Mallobaude back once more as he continued his assault. But something was wrong, and the smile flickered into an expression of worry briefly, and back again. Why wasn't Mallobaude, left hand of Abhorash himself, fighting back?
But it seemed the winged bat-vampire had spoken too soon. Walach's sword struck the first blow into a wing, dismembering the tendons and rendering it useless. The next blow struck the vampire's hardened carapace, shattering it. Every blow was perfectly precise, striking exactly where Mallobaude wanted with ruthless efficiency, slowly pushing back the vampire.
Alath snarled, and leapt at Malloabude, a bat with a crooked wing. But the experienced duellist simply dodged, and his blows increased in force and speed, still striking where the veteran wanted, shattering Alath's carapace and damaging his flailing wings.
The bat-like vampire was unnerved. He was aware he was losing ... he could endure the onslaught for a long time, but not too long.
For the first time in his life, Alath, brother of Akhenaton, felt fear.
+++++
Yet while Alath may have felt fear, all Akhenaton felt was a cold dismay and hate as he stared at his arch rival, the vampire whose coming had begun the ruination of his unlife, and the unmaking of all he had made possible. The Herald hissed as his spirit flowed back into his cold body. "So ... I did not expect that, I have to admit," the Herald began carelessly, clearly attempting to buy time.
Coreaux hissed, his snarl interrupting the Herald. "How does it feel to be outstripped in power, vampire? You have destroyed all I once held dear, from my family to my men's loyalty, yet upon this day I will have my vengeance."
Akhenaton hissed, and a faint glow appeared around his hands, as he adopted the attack position, clearly aggravated by Coreaux's interruption. "Then let us duel, Black Knight."
+++++
A battle with daemons in is a very disappointing event. However many daemonic strategies and tactics are in play, it remains as ‘real' as a puppet show: the ‘dead' just vanish, sometimes leaving behind a shadow, but mostly just vanishing in a cloud of smoke, perhaps with evil laughter as a special effect.
Urtica watched from his tower of nurglings as carnage ensued. Below him, the khornate daemons were slowly being overpowered and destroyed, while their great leader - a bloodthirster - left a trail of smoke in the air: the smoke caused by destroyed daemons, the slime-ridden daemon was sure.
Urtica's laughter was a hacking cough as he watched the battle unfold, like Xerxes watching the battle of Salamis, but he realized he would have to intervene soon: that bloodthirster was just too damn powerful.
+++++
More blows. And more. There had been so many by now that Alath could barely count the number of times he had parried. His bat-like form was in a cowering twist, covering his face and body with the large wings: wings that would never fly again, but such was the sacrifice he needed to pay to stay alive.
But even as he thought this, some inner sense told him he could not fight for much longer: either he retaliated, or Alath would be a bloodied mess on the floor.
The half-vampire breathed heavily as another blow landed, and used his feet and battered wings to propel himself in a crooked leap at Walach, momentarily putting the warrior of his guard. Alath snarled, and unleashed a hail of blows upon the fallen vampire's armour, but to no avail. No dents, no ...
A sudden thought filled Alath's mind, and he backed away as it overpowered every will to fight he had left: he needed to escape. The bat-vampire hissed, his wings shrouding him like a grotesque cloak as he sprang away, his form metamorphosing into the form he was more accustomed to: that of a reaper.
It was to be his last mistake. Mallobaude staggered upright, and, dropping his sword, drew a long dagger, gleaming with a green poison. A drip fell onto the marble, burning all the way through the ancient stone.
Face locked in a snarl; Walach raised his hand, and took aim at Alath's back. He had never missed his target.
The dagger hissed through the air and struck the centre of the half-vampire's back like an arrow, with an awful cracking noise that was either the snap of a hardened carapace or the creature's spine cracking.
Mallobaude smiled as the bat-vampire rose into the air, its form twisting into horrific shapes as it screamed; an ear-piercing shriek that shook Nagashizzar itself. Green light burst from every pore in the vampire's body and the scream increased in pitch, now showing a hint of fear and desperation.
Alath's mutating face showed pure horror as the dagger sank deeper into its form and all light seemed to dim, the night lit only by the glowing green form of Alath, brother of Akhenaton.
Then it all returned to light in a flash, and Walach heard the dagger clatter to the floor as normal colours adjusted themselves in his eyesight.
Looking around, Walach could make out a faint shadow-sceptre flickering away across the rocky outcrop. Mallobaude smiled, knowing Alath was returning to his master, having failed in his task.
A faint whisper whistled across the still air as Walach Harkon turned away. "Curse you, Walach ..."
+++++
For a moment Akhenaton tripped, and Coreaux thought that the motion of the dragon he stood on had dislodged the Herald. But it was not so. Akhenaton let out a hiss, looking down at the floor, hands clenched into fists, albeit fists with sharpened claws.
His red eyes were full of serpent-like malice, asnd he glared at Coreaux. "You ... you caused his death. He is death ... my brother ... Alath is dead because of you, you bastard." The Herald's eyes were full of hateful malice, and it was clear he blamed Coreaux for the death of this ‘Alath' person.
But whoever this mysterious character was, Coreaux had no time to enquire about. A lethal blow shattered his concentration and broke through his magical defences: it was clear the Herald was not going to duel like a common mortal. And Coreaux had expected that ... what he had not expected was the power of the blow.
The Black Knight staggered backwards, even the power of the spear not pausing the Herald. Another blow hit like lightning, the ball of pure magic intended to erase all of Coreaux's mind and soul from his body, and the Black Knight was forced to pause in casting a spell to deflect the powerful blow.
How could Akhenaton have such power? Coreaux had known the arch-vampire was powerful, but this was ludicrous ... unless ... oh, no! No! That was ... well, it was possible, but it shouldn't happen.
The damnable Herald was drawing on the power of the spear ... so that was how he had got so powerful. The bastard. Coreaux snarled, clasping the spear tightly, but it did little; no matter how much he grasped it, the magical stream flowing from it would not stop.
Coreaux's eyes widened as a great blast, drowning even the sound of the horde below, knocked him off the dragon and into the air.
As he fell, his thoughts echoed that single phrase that so accurately described his feelings at the moment. The bastard.
+++++
Mallobaude sheathed his sword, and sat down on a rock, panting slightly. He was surprised Alath had lasted so long, but the creature was a vampire, even if only partly.
But now, he had more important business. Did he never get a rest? He needed to ensure Adrek was ready ... ready to ride to Mousillon and victory.
The time had come for the Blood Knights to ride once more. The Return.
+++++
Akhenaton hissed as he saw a hand grasping at the dragon's tail, being thrown around like a puppet yet still holding on like a limpet, its grip not faltering as Coreaux was smashed repeatedly (and rhythmically) against the great barbed wings.
The Herald snarled, surprised the vampire had recovered. But, of course, he should never underestimate the Black knight's power: that was how Coreaux had freed himself in the first place.
Akhenaton unleashed a lethal blow on the Black Knight as he leapt onto a wing, a hail of fiery bolts knocking Coreaux off-guard momentarily while Akhenaton prepared for a spell. Good. The weakling was no more than a stripling - or he would be, if not for that spear. He should never have entrusted it to Arda: ever since the Herald had known about the vampire's reluctance to drink blood, Akhenaton had doubted his honesty, a doubt that was proven correct.
But before he could unleash his ‘killing blow', a blow knocked him backwards, and Akhenaton swayed slightly as the dragon took another turn. The weakling had actually hurt him!
Time to deal out the vengeance.
Coreaux knew Akhenaton could easily crush him like a fly, using the immense power the Herald had to use as he wished. The question was: why not? The Herald was sending bolts at him, but he could dodge them.
Something was clear: either Akhenaton wanted him very thoroughly dead, was building up for a powerful spell, or - a faint smile twisted Coreaux's lips - the Herald of Nagash was scared of him.
But why? If Akhenaton was so scared, why didn't he just destroy his existence? Unless - it seemed improbable; but nothing would surprise Coreaux any more - the Herald wanted him alive.
And that was one wish Coreaux would strive to fulfil.
The Herald smiled: clearly his foe - no, not quite a foe. More a protestor - had gained a degree of confidence. So it was up to him to get rid of that confidence.
The Arch Vampire unleashed a lethal hail of magic, a raw torrent of channelled energy that would tear flesh from bone. This time the Black Knight deflected it, and a hint of frustration entered the Herald's smile as it bounced harmlessly off a shield of magic, burning a hole into the flesh the dragon's wing and causing the great beast to veer of course slightly.
Coreaux smiled as the Herald fell slightly to the side in motion with the dragon, and leapt into the sky, drawing a sword of arcane fire and hurling at the Herald like a bolt of flaming lightning.
Akhenaton dodged, but the Black knight had gained the upper hand and therefore was on the offensive. Weak attacks they may be to the immensely powerful Herald, but attacks they were, and as Coreaux unleashed a stream of magical fire and lightning, Akhenaton was forced to dodge, diving to the side and barely managing to stay on the moving dragon.
For the first time in all his thousands of years, Akhenaton, Herald of Nagash, was fighting for his life.
+++++
Karn'ath. Yes ... that was his name. The Angel of Death. So many thousands of years since he had used it ... who knows how many mortal years the great creature had fought in the realm of chaos? It could be one, or it could have been thousands.
Even Karn'ath himself didn't know, now. Not now. But what did it matter? It was all the same ... souls to feed on, and mortals to convert to Khorne. To convert to him. To his master ... but he was Khorne, just as Khorne was his master.
Karn'ath roared a howl of triumph to the skies as he thought of it: no longer a mere mortal or daemon, no lesser bloodletter ... no, he was a bloodthirster, an avatar of bloodshed itself.
It had taken thousands of years for such an elevation, he knew, but now his old memories were gone, replaced by glorious triumphs and slaughter that created mounds of bodies as high as mountains themselves. Elixir flowing like a river beneath his glorious horde.
The red horde. The slayers. The blood-letters. Call them what you will, but the fact remains, and cannot be disputed: they were death incarnate.
Karn'ath always felt proud, to see that horde. All children in his - in Khorne's - image. All slayers. All red-skinned, with muscles like great, metal pistons and claws like the cold hands of death. Like him, they all had long matted hair, long dreadlocks covered in black blood.
His Children of Blood, led by their great master, the Angel of Death ... and yet again, on these warped plains, Karn'ath's title would be proven once more.
+++++
Akhenaton's roar tore the skies as he sprang back into action. Lightning was his shield, and the storm itself his sword as torrents of energy thrashed their way around him, crackling balls of fire and ice that defied reality itself encircling the tall figure.
Cold fires burned in the Herald's eyes as his robes swept around him, flailing fruitlessly at the rigid form. The winds formed a great hurricane around him, and Akhenaton stood in the eye of the storm, power encircling him like a halo of dark energy.
Oblivious to the motion of the great beast beneath him, the Herald's thin face was stretched ain a smile that reflected his pain as he slowly gathered more power, a shepherd gathering a flock of wolves.
His hood framed his pale face as lightning flashed down around him, a circle of crackling energy surrounding him.
Coreaux jumped backwards as the lightning lashed down, the spear in his grip feeling cold and drained as he tried not to fall off the dragon, the chanting below him already seeming loud enough to tear the air itself.
The Black Knight tried to draw power, but there was none left. No power left in the spear; no power to use to stop the onslaught: no weakness to exploit, for what weakness was there when nature itself heeded his foe's call?
Thunder boomed overhead, magnified by the channelled storm, and Coreaux gasped as the first waves of energy swept towards him.
Now was his time to die, it seemed.
+++++
Karn'ath ploughed through the foe like the juggernauts his minions rode, his great muscular form carving a swathe through the enemy ranks like a hot knife through butter: almost exactly what it was.
Foul daemons bloated with pus were knocked aside with ease, Karn'ath's great bestial face twisting into a smile as he watched one of them explode with a satisfying ‘pop' sound as pus spurted out of its crushed form.
Karn'ath was barely tired by now: his great limbs had methodically destroyed at least a hundred of his foe, yet no slight ache filled them, only an indomitable will to continue, to destroy these weak daemons who stood in his path. He was a machine: a glorious angel constructed in the forges of Khorne Himself. There were others like him, but he had that finesse of brutal moulding that marked him as greater than his fellow daemons.
Great muscles shifted like vast pistons as Karn'ath knocked more gibbering nurglings flying, watching with satisfaction their looks of horror as they flew through the air and left a green-brown stain on the magical rock that sprouted long, spiked fangs as the wildly flailing minions of Nurgle approached.
A roar split the skies as Karn'ath slashed another lesser daemon in half: literally, for as if in answer, forked lightning lashed down and red daemons emerged from incandescent balls of energy: clearly his master had gifted him with more warriors to deprive him of his glorious slaughter and to take skulls for themselves.
Ah well. Gifts from Khorne were not to be taken lightly: they could be useful, albeit only to aid his own count of skulls and bloodshed.
But even as he focussed on the creatures, he became aware something was wrong: though his eyes could make out little colour, the creatures emerging from the flaming balls of gas were violent pink and purple colours, bedecked with lurid patterning. And what was more, they were sending fire into his followers.
Karn'ath let out a great roar of rage as the truth descended upon him, but he had no time to charge and stop this assault before he felt magical fire tickle the back of his spine, almost hurting him through his armour!
Teeth bared, Karn'ath turned to confront a bloated figure sitting in a palanquin. "So we meet again, Karn'ath," Urtica rasped in his deep voice, a slow smile spreading across his face. With a roar of hate at his old adversary, Karn'ath charged.
+++++
Akhenaton released the source from the spear - which now felt drained - and let the waves of incandescent energy fade as he slowly cleared his vision with what little power he had left.
Staggering slightly on the dragon's back, the Herald steadied himself on the ridged spine: he felt weak, yet it was important to check something first. Was Coreaux dead? Nothing should have been able to survive that, yet somehow he held a great deal of respect for Coreaux and his ability to survive: the treacherous worm had wriggled out of every one of his plans so far.
Blinking to clear his head of the imprinted wave of blazing energy, Akhenaton scanned the dragon for any sign of the Black knight ... good, good. Either Coreaux had been burnt to something less than a cinder, or he had fallen to his death.
The Herald's one regret was that the spear had been lost along with his adversary.
+++++
Karn'ath let out a great roar and lashed his whip at Urtica, letting the tip scratch his rival's face. Urtica remained still, barely flinching as black blood dripped from the wound.
Karn'ath snarled: he would not kill an opponent who refused to fight honourably, and Urtica knew that. "Fight me, Nurgle scum!" the Bloodthirster roared, his howl of pent-up rage echoing in the dark sky.
Urtica smiled, his face twisting into an expression of benevolence that revealed maggots crawling through his gum and few black teeth. Wordlessly, the bloated figure stepped down from his palanquin, revealing his full height to the daemon: where before the Nurgle devotee had appeared short and bloated, now the stretched form of the daemon was surprisingly tall: clearly Urtica had been hunched up.
‘Lanky' was a term that is not usually used to refer to a daemon of Nurgle, but here there was little choice. Urtica's limbs were cut and oozing pus like a split bladder, yet the daemon was so thin it almost seemed ... wrong. Karn'ath's bestial face contorted into a snarl as he paused in mid-slash: the Nurglesque daemon had always been bloated and oozing pus. But there was no time to ponder the change, as a sceptre materialized in Urtica's spidery fingers and knocked the axe aside, taking advantage of the momentary pause to smash into the Bloodthirster's side.
Karn'ath roared in pain: this lesser daemon had hurt him! The Bloodthirster responded with a vicious blow from his whip, yet it was knocked aside by an invisible shield. The greater daemon frowned: this was unlike Urtica, but he should have expected such trickery.
Another blow was repelled by an unseen force, and Karn'ath began to feel insecure: if the daemon had mastered so much magic, what was to say he couldn't suddenly unleash a lethal attack and destroy the Bloodthirster?
No attacks came from Urtica, and Karn'ath got a feeling he was being played with, like some lesser tool of a greater power, though that was, of course, impossible. Desperately, Karn'ath let out a great roar of frustration; painfully aware something was wrong.
"Show yourself, daemon!"
As if in answer, Urtica's form began to writhe with mutilating energy, and a devilish grin appeared on his face, which was now twisting to various shades of blue and violet, his form slowly rising into the air like a bladder filled with hot air; though it almost looked as though Urtica was deflating, his already thinner-than-usual form stretching out, tendons becoming visible beneath twisted skin that was a pink-green that stretched the mind to even consider.
Horrible faces appeared in the writhing skin like a vile parody of creatures trying to escape a rubber compartment. Karn'ath took a cautious step back as a great beak burst from what had once been Urtica's face, his now-hollowed skull forming a great bird's head: yet a bird with horns and mutating flesh.
The blue-purple monstrosity let out a great shriek as massive wings unfolded, weakened flesh splitting as pure white, feathered constructions burst from beneath tortured muscle. Karn'ath snarled, watching a staff slowly materialize in the creature's now-clawed hand. Tzeentch.
The Khornate daemon roared once more, and hurled an axe at the towering daemon, that now had a nimbus of incandescent energy that would have blinded any mortal shielding it. The axe hit something, yet it fell to the hard ground with a crack, as if something had stopped it.
Karn'ath grunted as he noted scales had appeared on the daemons ‘arms. As if it couldn't get any worse.
The daemon snarled, and began his charge, yet before he could even raise his second axe, it was gone, leaving nothing: not even the small cloud of mist that was natural here in the Wastes.
A vast feathery wing whipped Karn'ath's face, and as he snarled in defiance, he felt his form weaken, the daemon's tall form approaching, a good six feet above the stout bloodthirster.
Karn'ath felt his resistance weaken, and concentrated on stability. How could this be happening?
"Urtica ..." he rasped, clinging to a small piece of hope.
The bird-like face twisted into a semblance of a smile. "Gone, Karn'ath. I am the keeper of this gate, and I do not permit outlaws to pass ... like your Nurglesque friend," the harsh voice continued, "You will be scattered to the seven to the seven winds: Tzeentch himself guards this gate, and you would do well to remember it when you are left for mortal retribution."
Suddenly Karn'ath felt his form slipping away from him, and his tormented soul howled as the winds took his material form. "I will have vengeance, deamon!"
+++++
Coreaux's numb hands gripped the underside of the dragon, white with cold and lack of blood. Any moment now, he thought. Any moment now he would be back in Mousillon, and he would have retribution in a frenzy of bloodshed!
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Literature 
