Blood for the Blood God

15

Hutga could see the enemy forces fall into formation as they marched into the valley. From his vantage point high in the howdah of his mammoth, he watched in brooding silence as the Seifan horsemen and Vaan infantry manoeuvred through the narrow gap between the hills.

The presence of the Seifan riders meant that he could not withdraw into the maze of passes deeper in the mountain range, a rearguard would need to stay behind to keep the horsemen at bay while the rest of the tribe lost themselves in the labyrinth. Once in the passes, the Tsavags could fight the running battle that Hutga had envisioned when he brought his people into Ikar’s Refuge, but to do that, they had to hold the Seifan back long enough to allow such an escape.

The Seifan spread out across a wide front. A small number of chariots were scattered along the centre and right flank, a ploy to gull Hutga as to where the Hung were concentrating their strength. With his view of the enemy deployment, he could see the heavy numbers of war chariots gathering behind a loose screen of cavalry on his left. Unused to fighting the Tsavags and their mammoths, the Seifan kahn didn’t appreciate the better view of the battlefield the height of the towering beasts afforded the Tong. He would learn soon enough, Hutga thought, snapping orders to his warriors, redeploying his men to meet the brunt of the Seifan attack.

Hutga saw something else the new kahn had failed to take into account. The infantry marching forwards to support the Seifan were light skirmishers, warriors with much poorer armour and arms than the regular Vaan force. He could see the muscle-swollen masses of Muhaks and the tattooed faces of Gahhuks among the skirmishers.

Ratha wasn’t committing his best troops to the fight, he was sending forward the dregs of his army: slaves, prisoners and refugees. The heavy troops, the true fighting force of the Vaan was hanging back, moving into the valley at a snail’s pace, content to allow the Seifan and the conscripts to draw further and further away.

The Seifan weren’t the only ones with a mind towards treachery. Zar Ratha was too cagey a warlord not to see an opportunity when it presented itself. He saw the coming battle as a chance to rid himself of both the Tsavags and the Seifan. He would let the Hung engage the mammoth riders and bear the brunt of the fighting. Deceived by the presence of the skirmishers, in the thick of battle the Seifan would not realise until too late that the Vaan army was not with them. Even if they did realise Ratha’s strategy, it would be too late. The Seifan would be trapped between the iron wall of the Vaan line and Hutga’s mammoths. There would be no escape for the Hung.

Hutga knew, then, that Ratha’s skirmishers would start the battle, seeking to force the Seifan into action before they had any opportunity to discover the zar’s ploy. The Vaan would allow the Tsavags and Seifan to slaughter one another, and then sweep forward in a wall of iron to cut down the exhausted victor.

With their spear-throwers and long axes, and the devilish tactic of scattering iron caltrops across the battlefield, the infantry of the Vaan would be the true fight ahead of Hutga’s mammoth riders. A war mammoth was, at its core, a weapon of terror, depending as much upon the panic it could inflict upon an enemy’s ranks as it did upon its immense size and strength.

Looking out upon the sea of blackened iron that was Ratha’s army, Hutga could not imagine the formidable force shattering like some ill-disciplined rabble. Iron resolve was the weapon in Ratha’s arsenal that the Tsavags had to fear more than any other.

Yet, even as Hutga looked upon the imposing army, he saw confusion rear its head among the rearmost ranks. Warriors scattered, pressing back into the valley, pushing the forward ranks deeper into Ikar’s Refuge.

Shouts of alarm and, yes, fear, sounded from the rearguard, drowning out the furious commands of war chiefs and officers. Something had happened; some new threat had emerged to sow disorder among Ratha’s disciplined troops.

Hutga dared to hope that Enek Zjarr and the Sul had finally arrived. Striking at the rear of the Vaan, Ratha would be trapped, caught between the mammoths of the Tsavags and the sorcery of the Sul. As the rearguard of the army continued to scatter, however, as the solid ranks of the Kurgans began to disintegrate, Hutga felt a knot of terror rise in his throat.

The mouth of the valley was strewn with Vaan corpses, dozens at the very least, but it wasn’t sorcery that had felled the warriors, it was steel. Not the steel of a rescuing army, but the steel of a lone man, a red phantom that stalked relentlessly through the ranks of the dead.

Another army had arrived, an army of one, an army called the Skulltaker.

After the brooding horror of the snake tunnels, Dorgo thought there was nothing beneath the clean sky that could be so abominable. He was more wrong than he could have believed possible. When Ulagan led their small group out of the other end of the tunnel, following the draught of air, Dorgo knew that they were no longer in the Shadowlands. However strange the borderland had been, it had still been a place at least anchored in reality as a mortal mind understood it.

What he looked out upon was madness. The sky was burnt orange, the clouds lazily drifting across it like splotches of rust. The sun was red, casting a crimson shadow across the land. Such a land Dorgo had never seen, a vast expanse of apparently endless marsh, its unmoving waters revoltingly blood-like in hue. The warrior reflected that a blood-bog was not the most impossible thing chronicled in the legends and myths of the Wastes. The thought did nothing to put him at ease.

The tunnel opened out upon the slopes of a mountain, despite the impossibility of ascending to such a height when every tunnel in the underworld had been descending. It was an even stranger formation than the hill they had entered in the borderland. The mountain was black, its stones sharp and displaying angular facets. It seemed to be constructed of obsidian, though Dorgo resisted calling it such. Certainly no natural mountain had ever been formed from pure obsidian.

From his vantage point, Dorgo could see the sprawl of the land for leagues in every direction except south, or at least where south should be if the strange red sun was where it should be. He could see nothing he recognised, not even the faintest speck on the horizon that might be the weird borderland they had left behind.

“We are in the Wastes,” Sanya told them, as if there were any doubt. She fingered her amulets, taking some visible comfort in their promise of protection. “Watch your thoughts as well as your feet,” she advised as she started to climb down the sharply faceted slope.

“A misstep in either can be death, and worse than death.”

Dorgo watched Sanya start her descent. At least her ordeal in the tunnels hadn’t diminished her arrogant self-assurance.

“I’ll give her some thoughts,” Ulagan hissed. The scout was watching Sanya with a great deal less detachment than Dorgo. There was a lascivious gleam in his eye as the woman made her awkward descent. Her robe had been torn to tatters by the snakemen, and the crude garment she had improvised from the remains left little to the imagination, though it seemed that the scout’s mind was still willing to accept the challenge.

“Haven’t we enough trouble already?” Dorgo asked, sighing.

Ulagan smiled at his leader. “Not of the right kind,” he said. The wiry scout almost doubled-over as Togmol’s huge hand slapped him on the back.

“When she turns you into a toad, I promise to step on you,” Togmol said. The big warrior was almost jubilant to be out under the open sky again, even if it was a different sky than the one that hung over the lands of their birth. “Though it might be hard to tell,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Ulagan curled his lip in a sour expression of distaste, and then suddenly became alert. He started forwards, staring at an outcropping of rock. His wormy tentacle slithered across the sharp facets of the obsidian, eyes peering suspiciously at the stone.

“What is…?”

Dorgo never finished asking his question. A shape, a phantom form rose up from within the stone, like some ghostly fish rising from the depths of a black ocean. It was pale and putrid, dripping with blood and slime, only a mocking semblance of decay proclaiming its kinship to anything that might once have been alive. Dorgo got the impression of a great, limpid eye, of a leathery, snout-like beak and flabby reptilian claws. Then he was much too busy to see anything more.

Ulagan screamed and lurched forwards. Dorgo could not be certain if the scout had slipped or been pulled. The impossibility of his distress was enough to confound the warrior. By some incredible process, Ulagan had sunk into the obsidian, and was being dragged down into its black depths!

Dorgo seized the hunter’s waist, throwing his arms around the man as he desperately tried to pull free. Already, Ulagan’s right shoulder had vanished into the black face of the rock. The force pulling on the hunter was immensely strong, and Dorgo could feel his feet sliding as he was dragged after Ulagan. The man’s face was sinking into the stone, his screams becoming muffled as he faded into the shiny obsidian facet.

Powerful arms wrapped around Dorgo’s waist. He heard Togmol roar as the big warrior threw his strength and weight into a massive effort. Inch by agonising inch, Togmol’s brawn tilted the balance. Slowly, Ulagan began to emerge from the ghastly angel trying to devour him. First, his terrified face emerged, and then his vanished shoulder. Finally, the ropy length of his mutated arm was free, but it was not alone.

A slimy, leathery claw was clenched tightly around Ulagan’s limb, fingers like bloated slugs tearing into the man’s flesh. The snout-like beak pushed free from the face of the rock, snarling and spitting its ghastly hunger. Dorgo could see the thing’s swollen eye staring at him from the shadowy world within the stone, could feel its evil malignity glaring at him with timeless hatred.

Then there was a resounding crash, like the roar of an avalanche. The stink of ozone filled the air and a terrible, slobbering shriek stabbed at the Tsavags’ ears. The men fell to the ground as the terrible grip on Ulagan’s arm was broken. The scout looked in alarm at the dismembered claw still fastened to his limb. Panicked and disgusted, the hunter brushed the offending filth from his body. On the ground beside the empty face of obsidian, the severed trunk of a snout-like beak dripped and oozed.

“I said to watch your thoughts,” Sanya scolded the men. One of the amulets around her neck gave off a purplish glow as whatever power the sorceress had invoked withdrew back into the talisman. “The Wastes have their own kind of life. Some of it feeds on flesh, some of it feeds on emotions and ideas. All of it can bring death. Remember that if you want to survive.”

The Tsavags watched in silence as the sorceress turned and began to pick her way back down the slope. The strange episode and its stranger conclusion had impressed them. Even Ulagan was not likely to soon forget the witch’s power, whatever her other assets might be.

Togmol looked out across the blood-bog, the trackless waste of sucking mire. The big warrior scowled and shook his head. “Maybe we were better off staying behind and fighting the Skulltaker,” he said.

Gazing out across the desolation, staring up into the threatening sky, Dorgo could not help but wonder if perhaps his friend was right.

Zar Ratha’s ire rose with every passing breath. It was inconceivable, intolerable, that his carefully laid plans should be jeopardised in so outrageous a fashion! The attack against his rear had been an eventuality he’d prepared for. No dregs from the slave-pits watched the mouth of the valley; he’d positioned a band of two hundred of his finest axemen to form his rearguard. Although he doubted the Sul would move to rescue their Tsavag allies, it was still a possibility that he had taken into consideration. The sorcerers relied upon the terror of their magic as much as its intrinsic power, much like the Tsavag and their mammoths.

The Vaan were a breed taught to forget fear, the emotion burned out of their bodies before they were old enough to wield their first sword. There was no room for weakness, no allowance for timidity in the Vaan. They were a warrior race, men who knew neither mercy nor pity, taught that death in battle was the only glory a man could ever claim. When a man accepted the honour of death, he forgot fear.

Now, the Vaan were remembering what they had forgotten.

A lone warrior, a sinister apparition armoured in crimson, prowled through the ranks of Ratha’s rearguard like a raging lion. Butchered, bleeding hulks of Vaan axemen were strewn in his path, a bloody litter of the dead and dying. He was one warrior, yet he’d slaughtered his way through dozens. Every slash of his smouldering blade visited ruin upon another Vaan fighter, splashing severed limbs and spilled entrails across the ground. Men who had stood fearlessly against giants and ogres, who were prepared to defy the black sorceries of warlocks and daemons, faltered before the awesome spectacle of a single champion as he carved a gory furrow through the iron wall of their formation.

The Skulltaker. Ratha heard the name pass in an awed whisper through his army, saw fear worm its way into the eyes of his men. The rearguard broke, scattering before the advance of their terrible foe. Their panic threatened to infect the rest of the tribe as they fled. Men looked anxiously to their chieftain, weapons slipping in sweaty hands.

Ratha chose a frightened face, and then drove his axe through the coward’s skull. He kicked the mangled carrion from his blade and spat on the twitching corpse. “Dogs! Whoreson swine!” the zar thundered. “Stand your ground! You are Vaan, the mightiest breed to ever crawl from the womb of woman! Stand fast or be damned by your ancestors as craven vermin!”

The chieftain’s rage, boomed over the ranks of his army, but Ratha could sense that even shame could not unseat the fear that had taken root in his men. It was something that was almost tangible, like frozen fingers rushing down his spine. The zar bellowed in fury, calling upon the Blood God to steel his heart, to enflame the courage of his men and bring destruction to their enemy.

The last of the rearguard had broken, leaving a field strewn with the mangled husks of their abandoned comrades. Ratha felt pride as he saw another band of warriors move into the opening, huge brutes, bearing massive flails of chain and spiked iron. They were men who had been trained for battle against the Tsavag mammoths, to strew caltrops in the path of the gigantic beasts as they charged. These were men who had accepted their grim charge with an almost eager fatalism, desiring nothing more than to enter the Hunting Halls with the blood of such magnificent adversaries fresh upon their weapons.

The Skulltaker vanished from Ratha’s sight as the mammoth-cripplers surrounded and rushed him. The clatter of arms, the roars and screams of battle rose from the crush. Long minutes passed, and with each lengthening moment, Ratha’s heart grew black with doubt. A single man, and his mammoth-cripplers took so long to kill him? One man against a hundred of the Vaan’s elite? It wasn’t a question of battle, it was a matter of slaughter! Yet still the clash of weapons, the meaty smack of metal slashing through flesh, the screams of slayer and slain rose from the centre of the Vaan attack.

At last, a gurgling shriek wailed from the melee. The mammoth-cripplers pulled back, pulled away from the combat swirling at the middle of their formation. Impossibly, the Skulltaker still stood, his smoking sword shearing through the arm of one warrior, and then slashing through the chest of a second. A third turned to flee, only to have his back cut through like a twig. His crippled body flopped to the blood-soaked earth, moaning in agony as he tried to crawl away from his killer.

Even from a distance, Ratha could see the terrible rents and gashes in the Skulltaker’s armour. Blood, black and foul, drooled from his wounds. Ratha snarled in satisfaction. Whatever the champion’s terrible power, he could be hurt, and if he could be hurt, he could be killed.

Then the wounds began to ooze closed, the armour flowing together like water, sealing itself, making itself whole once more. In the space of only a few breaths, the Skulltaker’s grisly figure was as unmarked as newly fallen snow. For all the violence visited upon him, even the closest of the Vaan could find no sign of injury.

The mammoth-cripplers broke, fleeing in such frantic disorder that even the lowest of the tribe’s goblin slaves would have felt shame. They scattered like a mob of frightened rabbits, breaking in every direction without order or reason. As they broke, so too did much of Ratha’s army.

The zar raised his voice in a roar. He would kill this monster. He would show the mongrel dogs who had dared call themselves Vaan that this thing was no demigod. It was nothing more than some foul sending of the Sul, a trick conjured up by their sorcery. Ratha would send it back to the hell from which it had been called, and then he would seek out the cowards who had shamed their blood!

Ratha’s snarled orders brought a small group of warriors to his side, men encased in steel rather than iron, steel engraved with the runes of Khorne. Immense collars circled their necks, and upon these bronze bands still more runes of dread power had been etched. Each man bore a huge axe of cold-wrought iron, and upon these blades again appeared the skull-rune of Khorne. These were Ratha’s daemon-killers, men chosen to bear the most sacred of the tribe’s arms and armour, weapons that would guard them against any daemon’s fell might.

The chieftain led his small force through the broken ranks of his army. He had to act quickly, and kill the supposed Skulltaker while there was still a chance to restore order to his host. There would be time enough for retribution later.

The crimson-armoured champion cut a path through the rout, adding to the carnage with every sweep of his sword. A scarlet stain followed him as he pushed through the disordered ranks, cutting down those who turned to face him and those who turned to flee with equal abandon. That they were men did not interest the Skulltaker. That they were in the way did.

Daemon-killers plunged through their fleeing kinsmen, pushing and hacking a way clear for their chieftain. Callously, they marched over the broken bodies of fallen men, showing as little regard for them as the Skulltaker had. Men inured to the worst horrors any mortal might be called upon to face, the misery of their kin was not enough to reach the last shreds of humanity clinging to their souls.

A daemon-killer pushed his way through fleeing axemen only to find himself suddenly facing the skull-masked figure that had provoked such terror. Before he could even raise his axe, the daemon-killer’s head was rolling across the ground. The warrior behind him fared somewhat better, bringing his axe sweeping at the Skulltaker’s legs. The champion darted back, the edge of the axe just scraping against the metal skin of his greaves. Then the Skulltaker’s black sword was stabbing forwards and the daemonkiller dropped, choking on his own blood.

Another half a dozen daemon-killers were dead or dying before the Skulltaker relented. The ghastly figure drew back, waiting while Ratha cleared the last of his fleeing tribesmen. Another dozen daemon-killers stood with him, but the zar waved them aside. Since it had come to this, he would be the one to strike the monster down.

“I am Ratha, zar of the Vaan,” the chieftain growled. “I understand Khorne has sent you to test me, to take my skull if I am unworthy.” Ratha laughed and spat at his enemy’s feet. “Better than you have tried, monster,” the chieftain boasted, “but Ratha is still here!”

The zar spared no more words, but charged at his foe. Ratha’s axe crashed against the Skulltaker’s arm, splitting the vambrace, staggering the champion. The Skulltaker’s sword struck along the chieftain’s midsection, chewing through his armour and cutting into his belly.

Bleeding, Ratha stumbled back. He expected the Skulltaker to seize the opportunity. His axe came slashing low as the Skulltaker pressed his advantage. The join between the plates guarding the Skulltaker’s knee was torn, hanging in a twisted knot of red metal.

The axe swept on, biting into the champion’s knee. Ratha howled with glee as black blood spurted from the wound.

The Skulltaker’s sword was not idle, sweeping down in a cruel thrust that might have spitted the chieftain’s throat. Ratha twisted his head from the murderous stroke, his warrior’s instincts serving him better than his fury. The smouldering sword shrieked as its edge tore through the chieftain’s shoulder, tearing the iron armour as though it were parchment and digging a deep wound in the zar’s shoulder.

Ratha toppled in agony, blood spraying from severed veins. He caught the Skulltaker’s vengeful return with his axe, barely blocking the monster’s attack. He stared in disbelief at the molten notch that had been gouged into the bronze edge of his weapon. He started to understand just what it was he fought. Now, Ratha understood the terror of his warriors.

The attending daemon-killers rushed to their chieftain’s aid. Against any other enemy, Ratha would never have questioned their victory. Against the Skulltaker, he never doubted their defeat. A man raised with iron in his blood, reared on discipline and war, weaned on battle and destruction, Ratha found it within himself to feel sorrow in the useless sacrifice.

All too soon, Ratha saw the Skulltaker turn away from the last of the daemon-killers. The gruesome champion pulled the man’s axe from where it had embedded itself in his side. For all the runes of violence and doom that had been cast into the blade, the wound it left behind closed as quickly and completely as those of any other weapon.

Ratha cast one last look across the valley. His Vaan were dispersing into the hills, fleeing in disordered knots and mobs. The Tsavags and Seifan were likewise fleeing, the Tsavag to the far passes, the Seifan galloping into the western foothills, heedless of who or what they crushed beneath their hooves. Ratha sneered at their retreat. Run however fast, however far, there would be no escape for them. Hutga and Shen would meet the Skulltaker, but they would meet him as cowards, not as men.

Ratha lifted his axe as the Skulltaker approached him once more. Blood poured from his wounds, and strength faded from his arm, but the chieftain would not be denied. He would die fighting this monster to the last. Khorne would accept nothing less.

“Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows,” Ratha said, reciting the mantra so oft repeated by the Vaan shamans.

“Khorne does not,” the Skulltaker’s grinding voice growled. His sword came crashing against Ratha’s axe. So powerful, so vengeful was the blow that the weapon was torn from the chieftain’s hands. Ratha was thrown to the ground by the violence of the strike. The Skulltaker loomed over him, his screaming sword raised high.

“Khorne cares not,” the Skulltaker repeated, “but I do.”

The sucking blood-bog was behind them. It had not fallen away, vanishing slowly into the horizon. Such sanity was unwelcome in the Wastes. The oozing fields of gore had disappeared as quickly as mist before the morning sun. One moment, the Tsavags’ boots were slogging through the quagmire, the next they were crunching through the gravel of a bleak expanse, all colour sucked from the land by the angry sun.

Except, there was no sun. The crimson sky with its fiery tyrant darkened and faded, to be replaced by a starless blackness too dark to be called night. The blood-soaked sky did not vanish with the abruptness of the bog, but its retreat was too unseemly to betoken normality as Dorgo understood it. Impossibly, without star or moon, with only the black tapestry of emptiness above them, the world around Dorgo remained vivid and clear. Without source, without reason, there was light, a fiery glow that came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Even the filthy green luminescence of the tunnels of the snakemen seemed wholesome to him beside this eerie brilliance.

The air was hot and thick, dry and smothering at the same time. There was no breeze, no wind to bring relief. It was as though the atmosphere was tense, coiled into a knot of restrained savagery, brooding upon the moment when it would strike.

The men trudged on, following the lead of their macabre guide. Sanya held the weird talisman she had been given by Enek Zjarr before her. The crimson talon of the daemon stood taut at the end of its little chain, pointing straight as an arrow into the distance.

Pointing to what? Sanya claimed it was guiding her to the Black Altar, but Dorgo wondered if anything could be trusted in this strange, horrible world. He remembered the warning she had given them, that the Wastes were governed by desire and fear, not mortal concepts of time and distance. Want something badly enough, and it would find you. Fear something greatly enough, and it would seek you out.

The daemon’s talon was their token, their key to this ghastly world where the power of Khorne saturated sky and earth. It would navigate their fears and distractions for them, driving them to the place they needed to find, but even a daemon had to be cautious walking through the domain of a god. However great their need, they could not hurry their passage lest powers far greater take notice of their presence, powers that respected neither tokens nor keys.

Across the range of his vision, Dorgo could see great mountains rising from the emptiness, mighty mounds of colourless enormity that loomed against the lightless sky. He felt a chill run through him as he saw the mountains approach.

His eyes studied them with a crawling revulsion, seeing but not understanding details too distant for his consciousness to grasp. The mountains were rugged, with crumbling cliffs and shattered peaks, strange outcroppings jutting from their faces without pattern or purpose. Somehow, he was reminded of squat ugly thorn bushes stretching limb and talon into the dark in the hope of snagging some passing victim.

Limbs and talons: shock gripped the warrior as his mind understood what his eyes gazed upon. Towering over this forbidden world of burning darkness, the mountains were not things of rock and stone. They were skeletal heaps, gigantic piles of death and ruin, the spoils of unimaginable carnage.

Dorgo could see bony arms protruding from the sides of the mountains, and smiling skulls peering from the cliffs. He felt his reason falter as he tried to conceive a number that might contain all the death he looked upon. How many had died to rear these skeletal ziggurats?

Dorgo looked away hastily, his brain pounding inside his skull. It was with new eyes that he looked upon the pallid earth and the gravel he ground beneath his boots. Horror renewed its hold over him. What covered the ground was no more stone than the mountains that rose above it, but fine shards of crushed bone. Aeons had hardened the splinters into a crude mockery of rock, but Dorgo was not deceived. He cast his gaze again across the sunless expanse, at that enormity that stretched into the infinite unknown.

This was slaughter beyond anything Dorgo could understand, challenging his very sense of existence. He knew that this was but a glimpse of the terrible power men tried to bind with names and titles, tried to contain with legends and prophecies. What was he, what were the Tsavags, the Tong, the whole of the domain and the Shadowlands beyond, beside such power? A power, that, in his madness, he had thought could be opposed.

A flash of pain against his cheek removed the fog of terror that gripped him. Dorgo found Sanya glaring at him, her face twisted into a furious snarl.

“Idiot!” she spat. “Khorne is not merely the god of blood and slaughter. He is the lord of terror, the king of doom! As the master, so too the slaves!”

Dorgo could faintly hear a sound rising from the silence of the bone-field. It took him only an instant to recognise the noise as something howling, something hungry, something evil.

Sanya spun around, turning her fury on Togmol and Ulagan. The Tsavags were staring into the distance, trying to find the source of the howl. More terrible than the cry of the biggest wolf, more hideous than the roar of troll or tiger, the sound pawed through their souls to claw at the most instinctive fear in a man’s heart: the terror of prey for its hunter.

Other howls sounded, scratching at the ebony sky. From all around them, the lupine cries pierced the twilight world, singing of fang and claw, singing of meat and flesh. In his mind, Dorgo could see them, loping through the darkness, their scaly paws crunching across the bony litter: lean and ravenous, their jaws agape, tongues lolling against their wolfish faces.

Cruelty beyond the simple predator gleamed in their eyes, a pitiless wisdom horrible and malignant. Heavy manes matted with clotted blood flowed across their racing, dog-like bodies. Fleshy frills dripped around their collars of blackened bronze, and upon each collar, a single rune, smouldering like flame: the skull-rune of Khorne!

“Run you spineless maggots!” Sanya shouted at the Tsavags. “Your fear calls out to them! We must run, and beg the gods that we find the Black Altar before the fleshhounds find us!”

The sorceress did not waste further words. Turning, she raced away, desperately following where her talisman pointed. Dorgo did not linger, nor were Togmol and Ulagan slow to hurry after the woman. Whatever doubts and suspicions they harboured against her, the howls of the daemons drowned them out.