Blood. So much of it. Kruath had witnessed the carnage of battle on countless occasions. He had seen rituals to Khaine which were brutal and bloody as was appropriate and necessary to please the lord of murder. But the mindless violence of the forces who had struck the Tower of Volroth was something different. What they brought with them was carnage for the sake of carnage, violence as its own end. There was no skill or strategy to their method of battle. No grace, no purity. But there was definitely energy and determination. The Chaos warriors simply tore through the ranks of dark elves, driven to acts of horror by their insatiable lust for blood.
His own captain had been torn apart, limbs ripped from his still-living body by two barbarians who had been quarrelling over the prize and fighting to claim the right to the kill. As the captain had died screaming, his attackers had turned on one another. The brawl ended moments later when the smile of another barbarian’s axe cut through the scrap, biting into the throat of one of the fighters. The head was severed and the other barbarian snatched up the prize and held it aloft, screaming guttural cries to praise the Blood God.
Such exultation on the faces of the attackers. Kruath knew the holy ecstasy of ritual. There had been one time when he had been so caught up in the passion of the kill that he thought he might lose himself to Khaine’s embrace. But this was something different and something without reason. This was not sacrifice or appeasement. This was slaughter and destruction to feed an appetite that knew no mortal bounds and could never be sated. Even when there were no enemies left.
They killed and killed and killed again. When they could not reach a foe they tore down tree and stone alike, blighting and burning the world with their touch. When there was nothing left for them to destroy, they destroyed each other, washing themselves in the polluted blood of their own and lofting their skins as banners. It was what had always served to contain them within the north, what controlled their numbers. There were few forces who could direct such rage. Few individuals who could contain such raw power.
But she was one of them. Her. The apparition gliding on leathered wings at the head of the horde. A great and terrible being, made flesh from the stuff of nightmares, she burst through the freezing morning mists, a slender, red-clad form who rode the cinders and the pillars of smoke. She was like a dark, avenging angel.
He knew who she was. He had heard the legends.
‘Speak her name, boy.’ The captain’s voice came so quietly and softly that Kruath blinked out of his recollection. ‘Confront the truth and give us knowledge of our enemy.’
Kruath knew that the captain had worked out the identity of the Chaos army’s commander, but he nodded nonetheless.
‘Yes, my lord.’ He took a long, calming breath. ‘It was the Blood Queen.’
The Blood Queen was just one of the names that belonged to the notorious daemon princess of the northlands whose legends were told to children at night to ensure their compliance and obedience. The Blood Queen. The Gore Queen. The Consort. Valkia the Bloody. A name that sent thrills of terror and desperate yearning for battle down the spine in equal measure.
The captain inclined his head and nodded.
‘Continue,’ he said, as though Kruath’s revelation had not surprised him at all.
Kruath knew that the appearance of Valkia the Bloody would sit in his thoughts until the moment he died. She had flung her beautiful, cruel face to the sky, screaming a guttural battle cry in a language beyond his comprehension. Her daemonic wings bore her aloft, every eye on the battlefield raised to look upon her terrifying, otherworldly presence. Kruath could not tear his eyes from her. The sheer majesty of her was overwhelming and it was all that the dark elf could do not to fall to his knees. He knew one thing for certain.
I am in the presence of the divine.
Despite the horror of her blasphemous appearance, there was no denying the sense of power radiating from Valkia. Her spear struck heads from shoulders and punched through armour with ease, delivering perfect killing blows to any of those who were unfortunate to be in its path. Kruath felt the adulation directed towards this horrendous daemon woman, felt it emanating from those who even now slaughtered his people. It was she who led this unstoppable wave. It was she who drove them further, bringing the tide south into the Witch King’s realm. Kruath and three other warriors were despatched with due haste to bring warning to Naggarond. If they failed in their task, Valkia’s unnatural and unholy army would smash over the city’s threshold. They would consume the great stronghold and leave nothing but blood and ashes in their wake.
Of the four messengers who had set out from the tower, only Kruath remained.
Naggarond will not fall.
He had believed it then, he had believed it as he raced the horse across the distance from the tower, and he believed it now. Kruath’s weariness was great, but desperation gave him strength and he was back on his feet in seconds following his dramatic arrival.
When his news was delivered, they had sent word to the captain of the guard, who in turn summoned Kruath to deliver his news first-hand. And now, here he was. His frantic race ahead of the enemy had brought them little time to prepare for the onslaught and that was an advantage that Volroth had not been granted.
A fresh sword and tall shield were located for Kruath and he was marched up on to the walls with hundreds of other warriors. They took up their defensive positions, preparing themselves for the battle to come. The attentions of all were deeply focused on the protection of their city and when the light drained unnaturally from the sky, given the earliness of the hour, they witnessed the approach of the Chaos horde. Its arrival was heralded by a darkness that seeped across the land, bringing horror in its wake. The people of the city were unperturbed. Let the enemy come. They would greet any attack in kind.
Barbed, iron portcullises barred the gates and a ring of enraptured blue fire surrounded the walls, its unnatural light flickering from their obsidian surface. Bolt throwers creaked as they were winched into readiness within the narrow towers and the parapet bristled with spears, halberds and serrated blades. Naggarond was a black jewel in a crown of blood-forged iron, a monument to cruelty and the dark, poisonous heart of a ruthless nation.
What approached this glistening jewel, stamping with murderous intent from the north, was madness – unmatched and undiluted insanity that would eagerly tear everything down, caper in the ruins and make sport of all for the amusement of the Dark Gods. Kruath knew his histories, and that the Chaos warbands had rarely ventured this far south. It had engendered a certain arrogance in the dark elves that could now prove to be their undoing. For too long they had believed nothing would or could come against them, that nothing could threaten their city.
Now she was coming.
Kruath’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. His eyes roamed the lines of warriors. Every face was turned towards the direction of the oncoming army. The commander of this stretch of the wall had not yet spoken or issued any orders, but Kruath recognised Kouran Darkhand in the armour and livery of the Witch King’s own Black Guard. Darkhand held the haft of a huge halberd. The jagged runes on its barbed head read ‘Crimson Death’, a name earned through its reputation. Kruath’s tired body found a new lease of life. Underneath this leader, they would achieve victory. He was certain.
A red cloak fluttered behind the commander in the light westerly breeze. Unlike that of others, there were no designs or details embroidered into the fine fabric. It was plain and straightforward, much like Darkhand himself.