The War of Blood and Fire

== Chapter One ==
Blood was spilled for the Blood God, and skulls were taken for the Skull Throne.
The Khornate warrior shouted and yelled as he charged, feeling the power of his rage coursing through his body, a living embodiment of his god. Taking his ax, he swung at the spectral apparition that appeared before him, a ghostly figure wreathed in unnatural and sickly green that permeated its dark robes and skeletal face. A Nighthaunt.
Most men would have been afraid, terrified even of the creature so freshly raised from death, but the berserker was not like most men. He had chosen his lot with Khorne, the mightiest of the Choas Gods, a true champion of combat and warfare, unlike that pretender Sigmar!
"I am Kuungar, Blade of Khorne, and even you shall feel that sting of my ax!" he yelled, bellowing from his lungs as he charged mad with war frenzy into the fray of undead appirations. If "Kuungar, Blade of Khorne" had been taught and educated in academies and universities of the urban cities, he might understand that the Nighthaunt, spectral beings in their core, could not be normally harmed by mortals of fear or uncertainty. Theories and proven, if bloody, tests would have revealed to the warrior that only attacks with the driving force of intense emotion behind them could tear through the ectoplasmic body of the Nighthaunt, a rare trait among the common soldier who fell in fear and incoherency before the spectral damned.
But Kuungar was not raised in the soft gardens and homes of the weak-dwelling urbanites. His path followed the way of a true warrior, one who endured in the bitter steppes of the Broken Continent. He followed the way of Khorne offering blood and skulls to his grim-faced god. Kuungar did not feel fear when joining his ax in battle, but rather elation, spilling the blood of others and his own for the god of bloodshed and battle.
Yet there was not blood to be spilled in this battle but his own and that of his companions, fellow Chaos-followers of Khorne. "The dead do not bleed" he had been told, and the Nighthaunt were living, or rather, unliving, examples of this.
A single cut from his ax, ferocious in its nature, cleaved through the spectral form of a chained wrath wielding a horrible scythe, the creature screeching and hissing, but not a drop of pleasing scarlet liquid poured onto the ground. Kuungar yelled and urged his men forward, even as he saw one of them fall to the armada of invading ghosts.
Curse the hated necromancer! Curse Nagash himself for bringing these weaklings onto the battlefield!
Rage boiling under his skin, the huge and lumbering warrior cursed the god of the dead loudly and fiercely, rousing his fellow Khornate worshippers to even greater acts of anger and butchery. Kuungar raised his ax to cut down a Nighthaunt from the sky, shattering it into spiritual ectoplasm to be reformed in the abyss of Shyish. He gripped the two-headed weapon hard, briefly admiring its duardin craftsmanship now stained with skulls and crude blacksmithing to form gapping teeth and metal jaws.
Bloodrinker swung again with fury towards another Nighthaunt warrior, one that charged with large chains toward Kuungar, cutting the specter in half! Blood boiling and spewing forth from nicks and cuts in his body, Kuungar bellowed another great warcry as he charged into the last few Nighthaunt, who floated out of his way except for one unlucky monster that saw its unlife cut short by his weapon.
Kuungar cried out just as quickly, falling to the ground and bleeding profusely from his back. Looking up he saw a terrifying skeletal creature descend upon him, skull open and eyes empty as he reached with spindly bony fingers to drag his soul down to the depths.
For but a moment, a tiny second, Kuungar follower of Khorne and veteran of countless battles, felt true consuming fear in the face of unliving death careening before him...until the Nighthaunt's face was cleaved through by a giant sword and it screamed and splattered into ectoplasmic oblivion!
Kuungar lay there, bleed profusely from his back, in slight shock for a moment, before regaining his warrior senses and looking up towards his savior. Kuungar gasped, recognizing him
The large and heavy sword that had cut down the attacking Nighthaunt, itself a remarkable marvel for a follower of the Blood God, was only matched by the imposing and impressive figure of the legend standing before Kuungar. Immortal centuries of warfare and bloodshed had turned him into a towering titan of thick muscles, scarlet armor forged in the fires of war and baptized in the blood of slain foes. He felt the rage of a true Khornate worshipper, a worthy opponent who embraced the teachings of the Blood God. The blessing of Chaos radiated from the red-skulled helmet, signifying a true blessing from the Lord of Bloodshed. Before him, Kuungar stood a legend, a chosen champion of Choas, the Herald of Khorne himself! Vyrkhe the Sanguine.
He extended out his long curved weapon, the legendary Sword of Tears, carved with weeping faces that wailed with frozen terror across the blade of the weapon.
"Rise, warrior. You are not dead yet."
Kuungar looked at the sword jutting towards him and hesitated, but only for a moment. Reaching up with his armored hand, he clasped onto the curved wicked blade, so sharp and remarkably clean for a weapon of the Chaos Gods. Kuungar raised himself to face the legendary Herald of Khorne, but even his stall stature was a small sight compared to the tall and muscular bound warrior that stood before him.
Vyrkhe was no daemon prince, but he was blessed by Khorne, that was apparent. Kuungar had rarely seen the Vykhe, only having the pleasure to fight alongside Khorne's Champion a few times in his hostile life. There were so many legends told about him, how he had strangled an orruk with his bare hands, slaughtered the people of Lilea during a campaign, razed kingdoms and empires to dust and ash.
Vyrkhe appraised him, "You have fought well, even if," he spat, "These things do not offer a true fight. Nothing truly worthy to be gained in battling the hosts of Nagash!"
Kuungar nodded reverently.
"Still," Vyrkhe continued, "The blood must flow, and these undead wights offer a new opportunity for us."
"What do you mean, Herald?"
"Come," Vyrkhe beckoned, and Kuungar followed, heavy metal boots and armor clanking in rhythm with the smooth cast metal of his master.
Vyrkhe walked briskly up the hill his soldiers had been fighting on, the last of the Nighthaunt warriors dissipating with a shriek. At the top of the hill, the Herald of Khorne pointed outwards, across a vast open plain, and at it's very end huge lumbering mountains, red and angry with tectonic activity. They smoked and blew forth molten rock, alighting the dimming night sky like gigantic torches with their burning red glow.
"Kurz Valka." Kuungar said simply. The home of the mad duardin, worshippers of the shattered god Grimnir. Fyreslayers they were called, fanatic zealots that fought with bitter steel and powerful ur-gold from their magmaholds deep in the bowels of the volcanic mountain range. Kuungar despised the duardin, but respected their stubbornness and bloody battles they offered.
"Indeed, Kurz Valka," Vyrkhe said, "The duardin have always been worthy opponents, but always...unbreakable, cowardly even. Hidden behind their volcanic holds, bolted with stone doors that can never be breached!"
Vyrkhe turned back, grinning behind his metal-forged skull mask, "But now, now is the chance to drive our axes and swords deep in the hearts of the Fyreslayers lodge!"
"But how, my lord?" Kuungar asked, "I myself have assaulted the gates of Ghuryd, and no matter how much we devastate their forces, we can never breach their stone gates."
"Look there," Vyrkhe pointed out again, "Do you see that great gate there, high in the peaks, and the pathway leading up to it? That is the first step towards Ghuryd, Gate of the East. Impregnable to siege, to military assaults, to any weapon, a true testament to duardin construction," He paused, and pointed elsewhere, "Now, what is that there, in the sky?"
Kuungar looked to where Vyrkhe was pointing, and did not see anything of notice at first. However, he then spotted several small dots, greenish in color, and then another, and then more, and then even more. As he looked closer, he began to see vast numbers of ghostly green specks coalesce into a large stream, and realized what they where. Nighthaunts, gathered together in the sky and forming a river of lost souls, flowing like spilled ink towards the duardin magmahold.
Vyrkhe continued, "These undead, however, are not mortal. They will pass unscathed through the layers of stone and duardin defenses, hammering deep into the very homes of the Fyreslayers."
He watched as the collected tide of Nighthaunt dipped down, barreling straight towards the heavy-laden gates of Ghuryd, which has stood unbroken for millennia...and passed right through them disappearing into the burning mountain.
Kuungar opened his mouth, surprised at how easily a procession of ghost could do what no legion of Khornate berserkers had managed to accomplish over centuries of warfare.
Vyrkhe turned back to Kuungar and said, "Now, you see. We shall strike upon the weakened duardin who dwell in their broken homes, break down their ancient towers and walls. We shall march into their precious and untouched mountain holds and give them a taste of Khorne's true wrath and fury, of what his blades can accomplish! Rivers of duardin blood shall flow from the mountains and will flood the caverns, as we slake Khorne's thirst on the Fyreslayer's draining corpses!"
Kuungar roared with satisfaction, already hearing the duardin screaming before his blade and falling to his hand. Khorne does not care from where the blood flows, but soon, it would flow from Kuz Valka.
== Chapter Two ==
"By the Maiden, I feel like I've been riding for weeks," said Sir Martin van Kleef, looking at the large rocky cliffs on each side the long-armored convoy.
"Getting sore in the saddle?" said the man travelling next to him with smile. He was a short, hooded figure, clad in lighter metal armor, with thick heavy gauntlets and elegant pauldrons. The long green cloak flowed from his back, and on his chest the sign of the knight's house glinted, three sparrows in a field of blue.
Martin, or as he preferred to be called, Van Kleef, looked towards him, pulling on his long mustache and replied, "Indeed Lodewijk. The ride from Haarland was not too long, but we've been riding this little crack for days. I've been feeling every rock and crevice we've been riding over on this pathway. Not to I mention I still don't even know why we've been called to ride into the mountains the first place!"
Lodewijk shrugged, glancing at his lightly armored riding companion. "I too was surprised at the speed with which we were summoned. The rumor is that Lady Eliza had a vision by the Maiden herself telling her to send an expedition across the mountains into the east," he pointed forwards, past several retainers and knights to where the leader of the armed convoy resided, "More than likely Lord-Consort Jurrian knows the details, though I have not asked myself."
Van Kleef nodded. Like his noble friend, he too had been called by his lady, leading his small contingent of men and grouping together with other warriors of Haarland. The knight glanced around, taking in the sight of several other knights and lords, each with various degrees of armor and embroidery, riding together along the large stony pathway running like a gushing river of grey that poured deeper into the mountain. Besides the knights were their attendants, the poor folk of the duchy called to service by their lords. Van Kleef thought of his own men, many of whom he had trained, equipped and trailing behind him.
"It must be important if the Lord-Consort of the Duchess is sent along to lead us," Van Kleef mumbled, staring as he passed an elaborately carved but broken statue of an angry-looking and short bearded warrior, "It must have something to do with the duardin."
"Of course, but what would the Duchess of Haarland want with these smelly fire-branded zealots? It can't be a diplomatic envoy, and there haven't been problems between us and the Fyreslayers."
Van Kleef shrugged, "Only the Maiden knows, my friend. We must trust our Duchess and carry out our task."
The knight shifted in the saddle, growing uncomfortable again, "Even if it takes us several long weeks of travel."
Lodewijk laughed, and the two continued riding.
The company of knights and soldiers milled out from the valley, and approached the massive walls. Even hear, on the edge of Kurz Valka, it was hot, the ground and air a salty warm. Van Kleef forgot about the heat however when he saw the true scale and magnificence of the duardin structure. He had read stories and seen tales, but to behold the power of its presences was something else.
Two massive statues of barely clothed Fyreslayer warriors jutted out from the black rock, grim-faced in their resolve of eternal defense. They were massive, dozens of feet tall and each was holding a massive great axe, which were carved over the great door. The door itself was colored with gold and duardin runes, a massive stone workmanship of impeccable craft and talent.
Van Kleef's mouth opened in awe, as his horse trotted closer towards it. Leaving the carved stone pathway that he and his companions had been travelling, he noticed that the massive alcove leading deep in Krakarak was home to others as well. Numerous small tents and tables were pitched in front of the massive door. Several individuals milled around, talking to each other. Van Kleef could tell that most were native Lileans by their bright hair and colorful clothing, speaking in his native tongue, but there were others there as well. Most conversed in the Celestial Tongue of Azyr, which, since the return of the forces of the god-king Sigmar from the heavenly realm of Azyr, had become the dominant trade tongue for all. Van Kleef himself had been taught it as a boy, although he was still quite rusty.
Merchants and travelers stuck before the massive doors to the duardin hold of Krakarak. The human residents grew quiet as the armored company passed by.
The convoy of infantry and soldiers stopped their advance, and Van Kleef dismounted. He saw that Lord-Consort Jurrian was walking up the tall steps, and approached the massive stone walls, speaking with the humans guarding it. Van Kleef moved closer to the front, and could hear the Lord-Consort's voice boom.
"I am Sir Jurrian Berkenbos, knight of Lilea, lord-consort to Lady Eliza Spaaij of Haarland. I have been tasked by my lady to lead a host of warriors to this city, upon the directions of the most gracious and loving Maiden of Spring."
The humans he spoke to were as close to a duardin a human could get. They had long beards, most a bright red, with little armor on and holding a few weapons. Each was strong and muscular, and seemed made of immovable stone. This extended to their greetings, for none of them moved at the speech of Sir Jurrian. It was a strange thing to see humans serving the duardin in such a manner. It was well-known that the magmahold of Krakarak held a sizeable human minority, who lived on the very top of the duardin settlement. According to legend, a tribe of humans had fled to Krakarak, seeking sanctuary from the predations of the Ruinous Powers and their followers. Their chieftain had to fight the Auric Runefather himself, and so impressed him that the chieftain's people were given residence in the magmahold, where they became nearly as one with the duardin.
And now their descendants stood still and stocky, guarding the great gates that lead into the hold. Sir Jurrian asked again, more forcibly this time, but the iron-clad guards did not stir at all.
"The gates should be open for trade." Lodewijk scooted over and said to his friend, "I've been here myself a few times, and the duardin often have at least some trade going on in the upper commerce area."
"Quite true. So then, why are they closed? They haven't been attacked, at least not recently. Unless there is some civil strife going on within Kurz Valka."
"Civil strife? I've never heard of Fyreslayers fighting each other before. Unless it was over gold. Perhaps the greedy squats got jealous of one another and started killing each other over every last scrap."
Van Kleef stroked his mustache, "Are they really that avaricious? I've only met a few, and they were envoys from one of the cities down south. They seemed rather quite reasonable."
Lodewijk shook his head, "Maybe, but these ones care only for their precious gold. You know I've traded with them a few times, and they're liable to skewer you to get what they want."
They two knights turned their attention back to Sir Jurrian far at the front. Even from their position further back, they could tell he was not well pleased. The rest of the convoy was relatively quiet, and Sir Jurrian's booming voice echoed over the small valley.
"Listen now. I have been ordered by my Lady, and the Maiden herself, for this task, and I will not be deterred. Let us pass!"
Again, there was silence from the guards.
Sir Jurrian sighed, "Please appeal to your leader. Tell him that the Duchess of Haarland has sent him aid."
"Kurz Valka needs no aid," one of the guards hissed, finally speaking for the first time.
His companion stirred, placing his shoulder on the speaking guard's shoulder, who quieted.
Then suddenly there was a slight banging that came from the other side of the door. The guard who had remained quiet went to a side of the wall and opened a metal flap. He put his ear to it, listening softly and intently, with only a slight expression of surprise carved out of his stony face. He nodded, and looked to his companion.
"Kudvak zhur ask-ar-kal," he said in duardin's tongue, and then turned to Sir Jurrian, "You may enter, Sir Jurrian, but with only a few retainers. Our lord wishes to see you."
Sir Jurrian nodded, and with a loud cracking sound, the impossibly high gates of Krakarak began to slowly open, inch by inch. It was like watching a painting be stretched and torn apart, as the mighty gates emblazoned with centuries of immaculate craftmanship peeled apart. Sir Jurrian turned back and called for several of his best knights, who quickly approached their lord and formed a tight retinue around him. The elegantly armored warriors then descended into the belly of the mountain, as the stone tapestry closed once more behind them.
Near the back of the convoy, Van Kleef and Lodewijk glanced nervously at the stone gates which had just closed.
"What do you think they want with Sir Jurrian?" Van Kleef asked.
Lodewijk shrugged and looked back, "Who can say? These duardin was queer folk. Hopefully we get on with negotiations and figure out what we're doing here."
"Hopefully not to clean their halls and drink their ale." Van Kleef said.
The two knights laughed, and after a moment replied Lodewijk replied, "No, that would be a shame. I can guarantee one thing. They for sure aren't going to sit around and have drinks."
The two knights laughed again.
"Care for a drink of any kind?"
Sir Jurrian shook his head, knowing that he could not, at this time, be distracted in any way. Besides, fyreslayer ale surely could not compare to the wine of his own country. He had heard stories of fyreslayer drink, and that it was very, very strong. But the duchy of Amsteria was famed for its wines, a flavor so pure that nothing Jurrian had tasted could ever compete against it.
The duardin who had offered shrugged, and sat down on his elegant stone chair, carved in the image of a dragon, while Sir Jurrian and his knights stood attentively. The lord of Krakarak was certainly an imposing figure, despite his small stature, sitting before the knights as a warrior of legend. Brossi One-Leg possessed a long flowering red beard, just like the rest of his kin, with embroidered pieces of gold intertwined across it. His body was rippled and muscled, and scores of deep wounds and scars tattered across his skin, gleaming across his bare chest. The little clothing Brossi possessed was framed with pieces of gold and embroidered elaborately, sharp angles and distinctive styles reflective of the Kuzvulk Lodge. His hair was shaved, save for the signature sanguine mohawk of all Fyreslayers. It jutted atop his skull like pinpricks digging into his skin with an elaborate crown of gold keeping the hair aloft. The capable metalwork of the duardin race was clearly seen to any who took time to look upon the crown. Embroiders of various scenes were carved with intensive care, passed down and tempered by one smith to the next, carving further and further minute details onto the golden crown, and lending even more awe to the trinket. And, true to his name, the left leg of Brossi was completely gone, replaced by a long rod of obsidian. Meticulously laced around it were veins of gold, weaving a tiny tapestry of the life of the duardin, and as of yet uncomplete. At the top depicted a small squat Fyreslayer, axes in hand. The bodies of dead orruks, grots, Chaos worshippers, and even humans were littered across the black surface, names ascribed to many of them and each a symbol of the duardin-lord's impressive history.
"Your arrival has been quite unexpected," the duardin lord said, with deep barrowing voice, but one filled with more color and interest than most duardin. His Celestial Tongue was quite impeccable, possessing only a slight accent.
Sir Jurrian bowed and responded back in the common tongue, "On behalf of my men and my lady, I apologize, Lord Brossi. However, I have been charged to lead my men here."
Jurrian found it difficult to discern the proper rituals of diplomacy with the duardin. Brossi was a striking figure, and was unlike any person Sir Jurrian had ever encountered. He was not sure what the necessary rites and terms of communication were, even if he should be called a "Lord" for example.
The duardin seemed to be unbothered, however, and stroked his beard, and said, "And what is your mission, exactly? We in Krakarak have traded with Lilea since your people awoke from your long slumber, but this is no trading convoy. You have come looking for war. But with whom?"
Jurrian quickly interjected, "Certainly not yourself nor your kin, Lord Brossi! But, indeed, we have come ready for battle, for I have been charged with a sacred task."
"And what is this task? What is your mission?"
Sir Jurrian looked around and hesitated, "I shall divulge that to you, Lord Brossi, but privately, if you may."
Brossi stared back at him, with a raised eyebrow, and did not say anything for a lengthy period. Finally, he spoke, "Very well, there are things I wish to discuss with you as well. But I will retain my close guardsmen. I have had too many dealings with the tricks of the Dark Gods to trust any manling."
Sir Jurrian thought for a moment, but agreed, and with a wave of his hand and a stern look his men quickly departed the stone hall, along with several of the duardin attendants. However, a small cluster of duardin warriors, each grim-faced and stony-eyed as the guards on the outside, stood by their lord.
"Speak, Sir Jurrian," Brossi commanded.
"Several weeks ago, my lady, Duchess Eliza Spaaj of Haarland was praying at the church devoted to the Spring Maiden, when she had a vision. The Holy Maiden herself appeared before my lady, clothed in a white dress and fair as the radiant sun, and gave a command unto my mistress. She told her that a great threat was arising from the east, in the aftermath of the Necroquake, and that your people would suffer first. She charged my lady to rally an army to help our allies, and prevent this threat from growing in power, lest it should overtake our own blessed queendom as well. And so, I have been sent, to lead the best our men, an army devoted to serve as your allies in the fight ahead, no matter the cost."
Brossi did not stir except to only stroke his beard. Finally, after a minute of deep thought, he unexpectedly began to laugh, and laugh heartily, as if he had just heard the greatest joke of his entire life. The duardin guards at his side even turned to look at their lord, with faces of slight confusion written over their flesh-hewn faces. Brossi banged his mighty fists against the stone sides of his mighty chair, and finally began to speak.
"The gods truly have their own irony, it seems. Here I am, ready for death, and deliverance comes, and from you woman-serving manlings!"
Sir Jurrian stepped forward and snarled, "Do not mock my lady, dwarf! How dare you laugh at us, when we come with honorable intent as your friends!"
On instinct, Jurrian reached down for his swords, and the guards stepped forward with their great axes. Brossi, still chuckling, raised his hand and said, "Peace, good knight. I do not laugh at you, but the truly twisted game that fate has played, for us both it seems. I am, in fact, greatly relieved to find friends, especially at this hour," he paused, and after a moment, the laughter left Brossi's face, replaced by a more somber tone, "Tell me, your lady, or your goddess, whatever lass is telling you to do these things, did she speak to you what threat is arising?"
"No," Jurrian replied, "I have not been informed. But that does not matter, for it is my duty to aid you against it, be it orruks or vicious marauders. I have heard, well, the rumors, of battles across Kurz Vulka, and I know that it would take a considerable force to fight against your kin. Even Krakarak has closed its gates to trade, and this must surely be a dire omen.
"Aye, truth be told there are some grim signs now. This Grimnir-cursed 'Necroquake' has weakened us. And now, like an open wound, flies and maggots flock to taste out blood," the duardin spat, "The Bloodlords are marching now. I've already heard that one of our magmaholds has fallen, and many of my men have already been called to fight in defense of our homeland."
Brossi paused, reflecting for a moment, before he continued, Jurrian listening intently.
"My kin would never ask for help, would never submit themselves to the dishonor of need aid from another. Indeed, you are quite lucky you have met me, not my brother. Grumvir has always followed the example of Grimnir, and Grimnir was a warrior, who fought his own battles to the bitter end."
"But even mighty Grimnir could not free himself. Only the deliverance of Sigmar freed your god," Jurrian countered. He knew it was a bit of a biting remark, as the Fyreslayers generally did not like to be reminded of the death of their god.
The old duardin smiled, "Aye, and that is true as well. That is what we have forgotten, or rather, what we choose to forget. We Fyreslayers are strong and stubborn, but sometimes we do not remember that others would fight alongside us. Kurz Valka has been assaulted and tested many times before," he sighed, "But this is different. The followers of Khorne are flooding into our lands, tearing down our walls and cities. The Nighthaunt have been crushed by our fervor, but so many lives have been lost, and with that the Blood God seeks to cut his way into our homes..."
The duardin lord paused, musing in contemplation. Finally, he said, "It is not our way, and many will call me a fool and a coward. But we need the aid of Sigmar once more. We need the allies of Order, despite our pride in our own capabilities. Hehe, I laugh at the irony of the gods, for you have come when most needed. I was prepared to march with my own fyrd to the aid of my brother. But now, you are here. Let us march together, young knight."
Category:Narrative
Category:Fyreslayers
Category:Kharadron Overlords
Category:Daughters of Khaine
Category:GA Order
Category:Broken Continent