She had heard the clatter of the dagger on the shrine’s polished floor. She knew exactly where it lay. Ever since Khaelora Dreadgaze had been blinded, her other senses had grown even sharper. The chains that held the Aelf at the wall were not long enough to truly reach the Archprophetess’ throne, but she was fairly certain she could reach the knife. And with it, a final, desperate chance at vengeance was within her grasp. This existence was no longer worthy for a true daughter of Khaine, and if she went out ending this corruptive Darkness, Morathi-Khaine would surely smile upon her.
Slowly, carefully, but still with cold determination, Khaelora crept closer. She knew of the certain kind of silence when that Tzaangor witch was back in trance, and she also knew she didn’t have an endless amount of time.
Step for step, not making any sound – suddenly, abruptly, she was stopped by her chain.
That foolish old bastard.
Of course, what she was about to do would spell death for all the personal slaves in the throne room. But why not? Why not embrace it? Was this life worth living? Was there still any hope?
As she touched his arm, the touch of Khaelora’s hand spelt it out for him, doing the job of the tongue she had lost. His grasp weakened, then he let go.
Khaelora Dreadgaze nodded, even though she knew the old man could not see either.
Back into the fray. Start from the beginning. She set one foot in front of the other. Her will was strong, she would not make a mistake by hurrying.
Finally, she reached the knife. It felt wonderful in her hands. Well balanced. Khaelora knew it had been blessed by the dark gods, but this time, once, it would strike one that truly deserved to die. She fought back the pure hatred, reminded herself to be calm. Khaelora was a professional. She concentrated on the Archprophetess’ breathing. Whatever the witch did, it certainly took a toll on her.
She took her time to aim. Only once she was certain she would strike true, she let go –
There was a metallic clank, much to her horror.
A vile voice from rang out in her ears from behind, as her shoulders were brutally grasped by heavy gauntlets of steel.
“Rejoice! For you have been deemed worthy.”
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Immediately, her senses were assaulted by a multitude of impressions.
The smell of burnt flesh. The smell of blood. The smell of sickly sweet sweat intermingling with that of sweet wine.
There was cheering and singing from untold masses of mouths, beaks and snouts. The Procession had to have grown to a truly gigantic size since she had first become the shrine’s prisoner.
The gentle breeze of dancing movements around her, the touch of soft silk brushing her leg, and the quick, sharp pain of two superficial cuts as the stranger left with soft, joyful laughter, the voice disappearing into the overall sounds of revelry.
Deep, sonorous voices praised the Dark Gods, Tzeentch, Khorne and Slaanesh, chanting their foul prayers and oaths to Chaos.
Khaelora felt her arms and legs being forced into chains, and being laid down onto cold, hard metal. The chains were pulled to tighten painfully. Judging from the arch, the savages had chained her to some kind of shield.
The hardships of her inprisonment had not dulled the daughter of Khaine’s intellect that much, she knew exactly what was about to happen.
Please be Khorne, please be Khorne…was the only thing she knew to pray right now, until she was interrupted by a sickly sweet voice, and the side of a small, cold blade on her left big toe.
“Ah, splendid. This one is destined to be a masterpiece.”
Khaelora had no tongue, but she had to scream.
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Nine pyres of celebration had been erected around the Monolith. They Burned Brightly in Holy Flame, and within each of them, Nine captives stood ablaze, screaming and crying in a Blessed Hymn, telling of the Might and Glory of Our Burning Saviour.
Eight altars of stone had been erected around the Monolith, and upon them, Blood of Eight victims flowed freely as the Slaughterpriests’ sacred blade tore into their bodies, Anointing the ground of Furyoth Dell in great streams of Blood.
Six circles of shining shields had been placed around the Monolith, and upon them Six victims had been chained, who would experience Excessive Pain by the hands of Masters of the Arts until they eventually expired, their Divine Agony resounding far and wide over the Procession’s encampment.
Archprophetess Sytarith the Intricate could feel the power seeping into the Monolith. All the rituals honouring the Dark Gods of Chaos, the Sorcery, Bloodshed and Revelry – it fed the Monolith; more importantly, it fed the aspects of the Monolith she still had control over and starved the last one.
The remnants of the few Nurglites had been driven into pens, Gloriously Changed into chaos spawn – mindless, and thus bereft of their despair.
Sytarith could feel some strength returning to her, her grasp tighten. She was playing a dangerous game, to be true – bringing the Monolith in this kind of imbalance, all the while still struggling against the Fae’s influence. But the decisive battle was close at hand, and all risks had to be taken, in the Name of Our Burning Saviour.
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The Orruks were doing their job. The ambush of Razgor and his Waaagh upon the Voidfang had started, and their bolts and ballistas kept the beast occupied, which was certainly important.
The Archprophetess knew that Urgoth was the smarter of the two. Lacking the single-minded focus on the beast itself, he understood where the true danger came from, and kept to his word. He and his forces would be truly indispensable in the battle to come.
The enormous host of the Procession stood at the ready, hungry for Battle and Glory. Many of those warbands who had captured flying beasts of Rondhol were already airborne. The Khornate Demons were foaming at their mouths, they would have their taste immediately.
From out the Monolith, a shock wave raced through the Procession’s forces, vibrating through every body, touching their very souls.
“The day of reckoning has arrived! Today the Fae shall taste the Power of the True Gods!”
“Cleansed with Fire, Anointed in Blood!”
“CLEANSED WITH FIRE, ANOINTED IN BLOOD!” the warcry from untold masses of warriors resounded over the battlefield.
The Procession of Blood had finally met the target of their Holy Crusade.
The Khornate Bloodletters and Bloodcrushers, with unnatural howls of Fury and Hatred, charged at the head of the procession into the fray, joining the greenskins in their fight against the Fae’s thralls still resisting the Waaagh on the ground.
Behind them, the mortal forces of the Procession marches, most of the Khornates, driven into a frenzy by their Slaughterpriests, hot on the heels of their Daemonic coreligionists, others with the rest of the Procession in more disciplined ranks, following the lead of the Templars. As followers of the Great Strategist, they knew how they could bring the strengths of each troop to bear.
Blissbarb Seekers harassed the flanks of the Faes troops with perfectly timed hit-and-run tactics, while their comrades on foot joined Razgor’s boltboyz in raining down death upon their enemies, and shooting down those Fae-thralls who would attack upon flying steeds.
They were supported by kairic acolytes, who brought holy fire onto the battlefield.
Slaaneshi Painbringers rode tamed, rapidly climbing beasts up the legs of the Voidfang, slicing their blessed swords into the Voidfang’s flesh as they rode upwards.
Up in the sky, The various elite warbands who had tamed enough creatures capable of flight made their way to the Fae’s fortress, where they joined Urgoth’s Orruks and Heulierplaine’s ghouls-at-arms in battle, making use of the bridgehead they had already hewn. Some of them even carried Bloodletters up into the fortress, dropped them into enemy lines, and flew back down to fetch more.
Meanwhile, Templars on Discs of Tzeentch supported and guarded the landing, the Skyfires taking precise shots at any important threat and the Enlightened Knights viciously slaughtering the opposition with spears, horns and blades.
Many hidden sorcerous rituals were held that day, to support and strengthen the advancing Might of the Procession.
The Monolith, floating above all, was pulsating with Corruptive Power.
Beams of blue fire shot out from the Monolith, corrupting small portions of the Flesh of the Voidfang into a writhing mass of tentacles attacking the beast itself.
The Monolith’s power compelled Fae-thralls to fall onto their knees and into their swords, and many bled black from their eyes, others joining the attackers outright as chaos spawn.
Much more than that, though – with a Fae fused with itself, the Monolith had grown hungry. For revenge for the insolence, and for the hunt. The Fae were now not completely unknown to it’s being, and so… they might be surprised at the precision the corrupting powers of the Monolith found its target in them.
It brought glorious change to the battlefield – but the battle had only just begun.
The Archprophetess knew that the true path to victory was to reach the Grand Chalice inside the Fae’s fortress. Thus, once the fighting inside the fortress was at it’s most intense, and the Fae in their arrogance at the most distracted, an elite force of Templars would make their way into the labyrinth deep below the fortress.
Here, the truly decisive blow would be struck.
