Upon a vast formation of metallic rocks overlooking the landscape below, Templar Champions Xshaeta the Observant and Isthubar the Steadfast stood next to the Fyreslayer Gelvan Brazenmantle, their attention mostly directed at the Spire of Vexshik. The eldritch wonders of Skaven engineering could be seen glowing in sickly green in the night.
“We are in range.” Xshaeta observed. Gelvan simply nodded.
“You should retreat with your forces beyond the riverbank. We need to channel energies which are dangerous to those uninitiated.” Isthubar added. “You have to trust everything will go well.”
The Duardin hesitated, his eyes still fixed on the spire. Finally, he nodded again. “Aye. We will cover your backs.”
The fyreslayers of the Karvul lodge retreated. Gelvan knew many of his warriors were discontent. Many criticized his decision to seek an alliance with these vulture-headed Chaos worshippers. The truth was, though, that they would never have come this far without the Templars’ help, not after their force had been all but crippled by that Slaaneshi witch’s attacks.
The enemy of your enemy was your friend, was it not? Was it wrong to prioritize the more immediate threat? They all had grown practical in the age of Chaos. This was how they had survived.
As he looked over his shoulder, he could watch the Templars as they began burning a group of skinks on hastily erected pyres, in preparation of their ritual. Meanwhile, the two-headed Tzaangor carved intricate sigils into the ground, while unnervingly chanting from both of their beaks.
Gelvan shuddered. He was painfully aware of Hermdaer’s staring eyes tearing into him, seeking his gaze, imploring him to turn back and stop whatever sinister undertaking was about to begin. Gelvan avoided looking at his friend, instead focusing on the natural bridge over the quicksilver river up front.
If the Two-headed Templar had spoken the truth, this would be the end of Vexshik spire. They just had to be prepared for any skaven counterattack.
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The Fyreslayers stood in silence. They were all tense, focused on the strange Tzeentchian ritual some distance away. Thankfully, the reptilian screeching of the skinks had stopped by now, but the discordant chanting had somehow gotten even worse. There was static in the air, and the strange geometric engravings had started to glow in an intense blue light. This was wrong, so wrong. It made the hair on Gelvan’s arms stand on end.
He could not tell when the sound had started, it was suddenly there. Was it a tone, really? Yes, and no. It was a strange, unheard tone, right beyond the edge of their ability to conceive, yet somehow, he felt it; more of a pain in his head, a pain that grew in intensity, yet it still felt like a tone.
Looking around, it seemed like his brothers and sisters had the same experience.
Gelvan grit his teeth painfully.
Something was wrong, terribly wrong. There had been no counterattack, nothing. It was not as if they could not see the rats in the distance, yet they did not attack. Even doomwheels just rolled by, off into the distance. It was strange.
Gelvan rammed his fist against his helm in frustration, again and again.
The unheard tone made it so hard to think – but this, no. Why was there no attack? Why did the strange magic of the Templars seem to pulse in harmony with the energies of the spire? Did he imagine things?
“Enough. We go back. To hell with them!” he shouted, trying to overpower the unheard tone pounding within his head – and his warriors, relieved to no longer having to bear the inaction, cheered.
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Gelvan stood face to faces with the two-headed abomination he had naively called an ally but hours ago. The noise of battle was all around them. He was bleeding from many wounds, but they had given at least as much as they had gotten.
The fyreslayer attack had not taken the Templars off guard as he had hoped. Almost as if they had expected them to come to their senses.
Breathing heavily, Gelvan Brazenmantle held his ancestral war-axe in both his hands. On the ground beside him laid the strange flail weapon he had pulled from the beast’s grasp with pure strength. He was going to end this now. The Templar was a good combatant, but he – he was better. He spit at the Tzaangor’s feet and grinned.
Much to this dismay, the Tzaangor simply sneered at him, and then –
Isthubar plunged the ornate dagger deep into their own body, into the growth where their two necks met, and drew it along its curve. Instantly, dark red blood spurted out, ran over their armour painting it red, dropped down and soaked into the ground, ran into the cracks shimmering with Holy Magic.
The Two-headed Tzaangor cackled with glee while reciting scripture; Gelvan watched on in horror as the cracks along the Tzeentchian inscriptions broadened, the ground shook and transformed, and the first sharp edges of massive formations of dark blue crystals burst through the metallic surface.
It was as if the world dropped. The Fyreslayer stumbled, he felt disoriented, as if he had fallen into dark water. He could make out his men fighting and dying only through a hazy fog between the evergrowing constructs of translucent stone. His tattoos burnt with rage, but the rest of his body felt numb even as he struck out once again at the Tzaangor abomination in blind rage and terror, the strength in his arms immediately waning. Dizziness and a deep, all-encompassing sickness in his stomach left him bereft of all fighting skill, and as Xshaeta effortlessly parried Gelvan’s strike and sliced off his right hand at the forearm in retribution, Gelvan screamed more due to the feeling it was appropriate than due to the injury itself, his eyes helplessly darting around as he sank to his knees.
Blue lights were dancing before his eyes, and he could not breath. All around him Monoliths of pure crystal rose up from the cracked ground, growing, evolving. Words and sigils from a foul, ancient language were engraved upon their surface, and even glancing at the script had him overcome with a deep feeling of wrongness, of observing something that should not exist, that was so inherently corrupting and unnatural it hurt.
He could faintly hear Duardin screams all around him, yet he could not see his comrades, and soon the screams were drowned out by the pounding of blood in his veins.
The Monoliths grew massive, gigantic, a whole fortress made of maddening unholy crystal.
Inside of him, something began to shift. White-hot pain ran along his spine into every last tip of his fingers and toes, causing him to collapse even further. His head felt ready to burst. And this damned, unheard tone!
As Gelvan sat there on his hands and knees, his body convulsing, a clawed golden Gauntlet was laid on his shoulder, the sharp fingertips drawing blood.
“We are grateful for your assistance” a voice said, and it was the familiar voice of someone… of someone Gelvan had lost long, long ago. “We believe you should be rewarded for your service to Our Burning Saviour.”
At the edge of his failing conscience, Gelvan felt a sharp, yet somehow strangely numb pain as his limbs twisted, elongated, cracked, rearranged themselves.
Gelvan Brazenmantle screamed in agony and terror as a vicious beak burst out from his ruined face.
