The Sacrifice

Graeme Lyon

The vampire screamed as the dagger struck home.

Arioso chanted as he pulled the weapon out of the creature’s flesh and brought it down again. Nine times he cut, each slice carving part of an arcane sigil into the vampire’s chest. Dark blood slowly welled up from the wounds, filling the cramped chamber with a rich coppery smell.

‘You will regret this,’ the vampire croaked. Arioso ignored it and continued chanting, the syllables of power echoing around the ancient fane.

‘Your gods have no place in these lands,’ it continued quietly. ‘The only master of Shyish is Nagash.’

‘Nagash,’ repeated Kaemria, Arioso’s acolyte. ‘An old power, long since defeated. The Everchosen destroyed your master long ago.’

Arioso glared at Kaemria and she quieted. He made the last cut in the vampire’s chest and ended his chant. He looked down at his victim. It resembled a human, though its features were twisted and bestial. It lay on a stone slab, naked. Its arms and legs had been broken to prevent any escape attempt, and its pathetic form lay nearly still, other than involuntary twitches of pain. Even now, as it faced its own destruction, it sneered at the Chaos champion.

‘What have you to say, fool?’ it asked. ‘Do you believe that you can defy my master’s will here, in his realm? In a temple dedicated to him?’

Arioso considered the question. Nagash was one of the gods of myth, a being whose power had been broken alongside that of Sigmar, Alarielle and the rest of their ridiculous pantheon. The Mortal Realms no longer belonged to them. They belonged to Chaos, and so did this temple. The atrocities he and his warband had committed here in Tzeentch’s name had seen to that.

This was the last of many sacrifices – eighty-one to be precise – dedicated to the Changer of Ways in this place. The others had been the vampire’s servants, debased flesh-eaters, and the survivors of the battle Arioso had won days before. Each of the victims had been killed in a slightly different way, each sacrifice used to dedicate this place to Tzeentch in preparation for this moment.

Did Arioso truly believe that this was going to work?

‘Yes,’ he said, and brought the dagger down into the vampire’s heart.

‘In the name of the Changer of Ways,’ he intoned. ‘By the nine paths to knowledge, the nine mazes of mind and the nine forms of wisdom, I invoke the creatures of the Outer Dark. Nine times nine souls have I delivered to Thee, Lord Tzeentch. In return, one boon would I ask. Give me knowledge. Show me my path. Tell me my destiny. Send Your servants to light my way.’

A sudden wind ruffled Arioso’s robes and he heard Kaemria gasp. The light in the chamber, dim as it was, vanished, and Arioso was plunged into a darkness greater than he had ever experienced, a darkness that was not merely the absence of light, but its opposite. He could feel a presence within the darkness, like a creature with many eyes viewing him from a thousand angles at once. It was as if the universe itself was looking inside him, laying his soul bare and devouring all his secrets. He wanted to scream, to cry, to curl up in a ball and soil himself.

He would not.

‘I am Arioso of the Midnight Sages,’ he said, each word an effort. ‘I am a child of the Benighted Enclaves. I was born and raised in darkness, and I fear it not. My will is inviolable. I have summoned thee, and thou wilt do my bidding, daemon!’

He forced his will out and the darkness receded, replaced with a sphere of blinding light. Something was at its heart, but he could gaze at it for only a moment before he was forced to look away.

‘Very well, mortal,’ said a voice. It was ancient and otherworldly, and it echoed strangely through the fane, as though the echoes came before the words. ‘You have performed the correct rites, and your will is strong. Your soul will remain your own, and I will grant you the boon you seek.’

A thrill ran through Arioso. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Show me my destiny, daemon. Show me the dark deeds I am to perform in Tzeentch’s name.’

Visions filled his mind. An army stretched across a valley of black volcanic rock, littered with great statues, their features worn away by time. Vast mountains stretched into a blood-red sky, their peaks disappearing into turquoise clouds that partly obscured a moon in the shape of a leering skull. Banners fluttered in a light breeze, each one marked with the twisting sigil of the Changer of Ways and the other Ruinous Powers. The army was the largest the champion had ever seen, tens of thousands of warriors… and it was his.

Arioso was at the army’s head, held aloft by a floating disc, golden and bladed. He was clad in robes of many colours over shining golden armour, and he held a flaming halberd in both hands. He gestured with it and his army surged forwards, heavily armoured warriors and bare-chested marauders all chanting his name as they charged.

The vision changed, and Arioso saw the enemy, a vast horde of green-skinned savages, outnumbering even the Tzeentch champion’s army. They wore furs and skins, and carried stone clubs and crude spears. Some hefted huge wooden bows, and volleys of arrows sped towards Arioso’s charging army. The savage war-chant of the orruks drowned out the Chaos host.

‘There are so many…’ Arioso breathed. ‘What is this, daemon? Are you showing me how I die?’

The daemon’s mocking laughter filled his mind. ‘No, Arioso,’ it said. ‘This is not your death, but your apotheosis. In the Valley of Fallen Gods, your army will be broken but you will pass beyond life and death. You will mix the ashes of the sacrificed with the blood of the ever-living and receive a reward beyond your imagination. You will become eternal, Arioso of the Midnight Sages.’

A thrill passed through Arioso. Eternal life. The power he could gather. The loss of an army would be nothing compared to what he would gain.

‘Where will I find this Valley of Fallen Gods?’ he asked.

‘It lies within the borders of Shyish,’ the daemon said. ‘Follow the signs that will be laid before you, and you will come to the place you seek, though the road will be long and arduous, and your trials many.’

‘And the greenskins?’

‘Watch…’ said the daemon.

Arioso watched. Time lost all meaning as he watched the battle unfold. He saw the strategy behind the orruk assault, the savagery of the primitive beasts belying the keen tactical mind that commanded them. As he watched the flow of the battle, he memorised every detail, knowing that it would be to his advantage when this vision became reality.

At the height of the battle, he saw his own shimmering form descend upon the orruk leader. He focussed on the huge warlord, who was riding a creature that resembled a great drake, long-bodied and with a pot belly. It had thick scales protecting its carapace, and great horns emerged from its head, above eyes that glittered malignly. Nestled between its swept-back wings was the orruk leader. He was thickly muscled and carried an axe the size of Arioso, which looked carved from a single immense bone. The greenskin issued a challenge in its guttural tongue, and…

…the vision faded. Reality returned. Arioso stood once more in the small chamber of the temple, and the stench of blood filled his nostrils again. The flickering light still danced at the heart of the chamber, even brighter than before.

‘What happens next, daemon? I must know how to defeat the creature,’ he demanded.

‘You have been shown what you asked, Midnight Sage. Now release me.’

‘No. You will show me more.’

The light flared, and the daemon’s voice grew to a deafening boom.

‘Release me, mortal, or I shall strip the living flesh from your bones and devour your soul, and destiny be damned.’

Arioso hesitated. Could the bound daemon do what it threatened?

‘It’s not worth the risk,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I release thee, daemon,’ he intoned. ‘By the ninety-nine words of power inscribed on the scrolls of the Midnight Sages, I send thee back to the outer dark.’

‘We shall speak again, Arioso,’ the daemon’s voice whispered.

The light flared again, momentarily blinding Arioso. Then all was dark, and silent.

‘M… master,’ said a voice eventually. Kaemria. ‘What was that?’

‘What did you see, my acolyte?’ he asked her.

‘A blinding light, my lord. I heard a voice, offering me power and secrets, if I…’ she trailed off.

‘If you betrayed me?’ Arioso asked.

‘Yes, master. But I would never–’

‘No, and you never shall,’ said Arioso, pulling the dagger from her chest. She fell backwards, a stain of bright red spreading across the brilliant blue of her robes.

He looked back to the altar on which the vampire had been sacrificed. The creature’s body was gone, leaving only a vaguely man-shaped pile of ashes.

‘The ashes of the sacrificed,’ Arioso mused. Drawing an empty vial from his robes, he gathered the ashes. He was going to need them.

It took nine years.

Nine years of searching the length and breadth of Shyish for the Valley of Fallen Gods.

Nine years of gathering warriors to his banner with promises of glorious battle.

Nine years of delivering on those promises.

There were battles beyond count, against all the foes that the Realm of Death could provide. Half-mad necromancers and their shambling hordes of zombies fell like wheat before the scythe of Arioso’s army. Bloodthirsty vampires with servants both human and undead were put to the sword and magical flame. Vast forces of bleached skeletons, animated by dark powers and wearing the raiment of long-dead cultures, were cut down, the bones broken to stop them rising again.

It was not only the walking dead who stood in Arioso’s way. As was ever the case, the forces of Chaos, in their victory, turned upon one another, for sport or glory in the eyes of the gods. His army clashed with servants of the other great powers, and even other followers of the Changer, eager to prove themselves against the legend that Arioso was becoming.

As he crossed the Realm of Death, he gained power such as he had never imagined. On a mountaintop on the fringes of reality, he had engaged in a magical duel with a daemon, which ended when he bound it to his service in the form of a gleaming golden disc like the one in his vision. Beneath the Plains of Frozen Breath, in the treasure vaults of an abandoned duardin stronghold, he found a halberd that burst into golden flame at his touch and consumed the souls of those it killed. At the heart of the Crimson Labyrinth, he had claimed a suit of golden armour from its previous owner. From horned helm to rune-marked buckler, it had protected him against the mightiest of heroes and most devious of traps.

He had become known as the Golden King, and warriors flocked to his banner, servants of not just Tzeentch, but all the Dark Gods. Even the verminous ratmen followed him, and their knowledge of the secret ways beneath the worlds had helped the host more times than Arioso could count.

In all that time, no one had known the location of the Valley of Fallen Gods. All Arioso’s attempts to summon the daemon once more had failed. In the end, it was the God-King Sigmar who pointed him in the right direction, in an odd way. In the final year of his quest, a storm had broken. A tempest raged in the skies above Shyish, and with it came a new enemy.

The Stormcast Eternals were something… different. They were an unstoppable force, sent to the Mortal Realms to liberate them from Chaos. Those in Shyish seemed to be on a mission, but that didn’t stop them from attacking Arioso’s army on sight, and they could never be fully defeated.

On their first encounter, Arioso had killed the leader of the army they fought, a towering warrior in turquoise armour who rode a great lightning-spitting drake. The figure had dissolved into light when his head and body parted company, and months later, he had returned, nearly killing Arioso in a duel high above a bottomless canyon. Arioso had survived only by fleeing, and in his flight, he had inadvertently found his goal, recognising the mountains from his vision.

So, at last, he came to the Valley of Fallen Kings. His army filled the valley, rank upon serried rank of Chaos warriors next to baying hordes of beastkin and warbands of hundreds of eager mortals. Bloodbound servants of Khorne rubbed shoulders with pox-ridden Rotbringers, and hunched skaven marched next to warriors dedicated to the Changer, clad in gold-coloured armour in imitation of Arioso’s own.

They chanted his name, ten thousand voices raised in worship of him. He was the next best thing to a god, and with the power that would be his when the battle was won, he could challenge the gods themselves.

At his command, the army began to march. In the distance, the greenskin horde roared and surged forward. Arioso climbed into the sky and looked down upon the battlefield as the vanguard of the armies met. The savage orruks crashed like a wave against the cliff of Arioso’s Chosen. The smaller creatures – grots – were the first to hit the enemy. Arioso recognised that the greenskin commander was using them to test the mettle of his foe.

Movement from the walls of the valley caught his eye, and Arioso turned to see gigantic spiders, hundreds of them, crawling down the mountainside and into the flank of his force, where the skaven lurked. The cowardly ratmen broke in the face of this unexpected threat, and the spider-riding grots pushed forward. Arioso swept down towards them. As he did, he painted mystical symbols in the air and muttered ancient syllables under his breath.

Reality split, and a host of daemons came forth. Multi-hued screamers swept in to surround Arioso, while gibbering horrors and fire-spewing flamers fell upon the unsuspecting spider-riders, driving them back. A shadow loomed over them as they fled, and a gigantic spider, its back crawling with grots holding on for dear life, leapt from the mountainside into the midst of the daemons.

The arachnarok tore daemons apart with its immense legs, and the grots jabbed with spears and fired crude bows. The daemons were implacable, but they were few, and the sheer size of the arachnarok took its toll. Arioso gestured, and the screamers peeled away, swooping down into the beast’s flank, their lamprey-like jaws taking hold and biting deep into the creature’s flesh.

It squealed and reared up, and Arioso struck, diving down and driving his blazing halberd into the Arachnarok’s exposed belly. It burst into flames, and grots jumped from its back, also ablaze. The massive creature thrashed and shook, and was eventually still.

Arioso turned to survey the battle. His forces continued to push on. A wing of knights had charged into a knot of spear-carrying orruks and were pushing through towards the chieftain on his immense reptilian steed. Arioso followed them.

‘If I kill the leader, victory will be ours,’ he told his golden disc, and it sped up in response, as eager to engage the foe as he was.

And so it was that at the heart of the battle, the Golden King and the orruk warboss fought. It was a duel that lived on in legend long after the battle was won, the survivors of Arioso’s army carrying tales of it across the Realm of Death and beyond.

Arioso swept down on the orruk’s steed, halberd raised to strike. He was ready for the orruk to parry his blow, or attempt to hit him first with his huge axe. Instead, the warboss reached up and grabbed Arioso’s disc mount, pulling it from the air. Arioso fell and rolled, pulling himself to his feet in time to see the orruk throwing the disc into a mob of rampaging greenskins who stabbed at it with their crude spears. He turned his attention back to the warboss, who gestured to him and spoke in his primitive tongue. Arioso couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. The creature leered at him and laughed, and Arioso nodded. Gripping his halberd in one hand, he slipped his buckler over his left forearm and leapt onto the head of the orruk’s mount. It thrashed and bucked, but Arioso stabbed his halberd down through the bony plates that covered its skull. The magical weapon pushed through chitin, flesh, bone and brain. The creature reared up, and the orruk chieftain was thrown from its back. He hit the ground and rolled, but Arioso didn’t see any more of him as he held on to the haft of his halberd, riding out the winged reptile’s death throes.

When it finally stilled, Arioso pulled his halberd free and turned, looking for the warboss. He found himself enclosed in a circle of savage greenskins, and with him, their leader. Close up, he was one of the largest beasts Arioso had ever seen, the muscles of his arms the size of the Chaos champion’s torso. The orruk stank of blood and sweat and savagery. It roared something at Arioso and battered one huge meaty fist against its chest.

‘I have no idea what you said, but assuming it’s a challenge, let’s finish this,’ Arioso replied, sending a surge of magical power into his halberd. It blazed with flame, and the orruk laughed. Faster than Arioso would have believed possible, the greenskin stepped forward and brought his huge axe down in an overhead blow that could have split an ogor in half. Arioso sidestepped it and lashed out with his halberd, which glanced off the orruk’s thick hide. The creature swung the axe in a scything motion, and Arioso ducked below, jabbing the halberd at the orruk’s midriff. It slid home, and stuck. The orruk jerked back, and the halberd was pulled from Arioso’s hands, the flames playing around it guttering out. He fell to his feet, and suddenly the axe was coming down at him. He rolled to the side and pulled himself up, glancing around for a weapon as the orruk charged towards him.

The greenskin roared again, hefting his axe. He swung around, and the haft of Arioso’s halberd, still embedded in the orruk’s belly, knocked into the sorcerer. He grabbed it, and it burst into flame again. The warboss reared back, roaring in pain, and Arioso saw his chance. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and pushed. The burning halberd burst from the orruk’s back, and the brute fell to his knees, dropping the axe. With a heave, Arioso pulled the halberd back out of the gaping wound in the warlord’s stomach and swung at his neck. The orruk’s head hit the ground.

From that point, the battle was all but over. A mob of orruks charged at Arioso, bent on revenge or proving themselves worthy to succeed their fallen leader, but none could match him, and eventually, the Chaos forces caught up with their master and drove the orruks back, breaking the horde and sending them fleeing, to be cut down like the animals they were.

In the aftermath, Arioso sent scouts to find what was at the valley’s other end. They came back with reports of a temple carved into the mountainside, decorated with arcane sigils and friezes of ancient warriors. After setting a guard to watch for any sign of the orruks returning, Arioso walked to the temple, a group of his Chosen around him, and entered it alone.

It was dark, as black as night, and the only illumination came from the flames of Arioso’s halberd. He walked through the structure, the only sound the echoing of his footsteps on the stone. At length, he found a door carved with an image of a chalice, and rising from it a creature of darkness, a nimbus of power playing about it.

He pushed at the door and it opened easily to his touch. Stepping through, he saw a simple altar, on which sat a chalice of black metal. The stink of blood hit him, and he smiled.

‘The blood of the ever-living…’ he murmured. From his robes, he retrieved a small vial. ‘I have kept you safe for nine long years,’ he said. ‘At last, the time has come. My apotheosis. From this day onwards, I will be changed. Immortal. My power will be beyond doubt.’

He pulled the stopper from the vial and held it above the chalice. His hand was shaking.

‘It’s funny. I feel like I should be saying something profound right now, but nothing comes to mind.’

He poured the ashes into the chalice.

For a moment, nothing happened, and then a cloud of blood began to coalesce. It rose up from the black chalice and formed into the outline of a man. Tissue began to grow around it, forming bones, capillaries and veins, then muscles, flesh and deathly pale skin. Black robes came into being around the body, and features grew on its face. Hideous, bestial features, yet with a hint of humanity. It stretched, with the crack of bones, and the creature smiled, revealing sharp white teeth.

‘I told you that you would regret sacrificing me,’ the vampire croaked.

Arioso was speechless, and paralysed by disbelief.

‘Were you expecting something else?’ the vampire asked, its voice mocking. ‘Perhaps you expected to become… eternal, Arioso of the Midnight Sages.’ The vampire’s voice changed on those last words, perfectly matching the voice from the cavern so many years before.

‘How…?’ Arioso managed, his tone incredulous. The vampire laughed.

‘I warned you, little conjurer. The Dark Gods have no power in Shyish. This is Nagash’s realm, and both life and death obey his commands, and his alone.’

‘Nagash is a dead god!’ Arioso screamed, panic rising in him. He looked for a way out, but darkness filled the chamber now, and his mind reeled from the vampire’s revelations and terror. ‘A relic from an age of myth!’

‘What is death to the lord of the underworlds?’ asked the vampire. ‘Nagash has returned from death a hundred times. Even now, he sits on his throne beneath the world and awaits the time when he will once more stretch out his hand and claim what is his.’ The vampire smiled again. ‘But you will do him for now.’

The vampire leapt, a sword appearing from nowhere in its hand. Numbly, Arioso parried the blow and swung his halberd in response. The vampire dodged and struck again, catching him a glancing blow on one leg.

‘How did you do this?’ he asked. ‘Why send me on this quest? Why here?’ Everything he had done, nine years of questing and conflict… It was for this?

The vampire shrugged and pressed forward with a flurry of blows that Arioso was hard-pressed to fend off. ‘Fun, maybe,’ it replied. ‘It was certainly the fastest way for me to return from death. The chalice contained my own blood. Mixing my ashes with it brought me back from beyond the veil. On my own, it would have taken decades or longer. I will confess though, that I thought you would find this place a little quicker.’ The vampire chuckled and stepped back.

Arioso screamed, a wordless articulation of his rage, and swung his halberd wildly. Before he knew what was happening, it was pulled from his grasp and he was in the vampire’s grip. The creature ripped the helmet from Arioso’s head and gripped his neck.

‘You will get what you were promised, Arioso of the Midnight Sages,’ he whispered. ‘Eternal life will be yours. Or, at least, eternal existence.’

The vampire started to chant in a language Arioso didn’t recognise, though he knew the cadence of a spell when he heard one. He tried to speak, but the vampire’s grip on his throat tightened and the words were choked to nothingness.

The spell ended, and Arioso’s vision began to fail. He realised that he couldn’t draw a breath and panic seized him.

‘Remember,’ the vampire whispered, ‘this was your own doing. Your thirst for power and your arrogance caused this. Such will always be the fate of your kind, for your gods care not whether you live or die. You are but pawns in their game. My god lives in every one of his servants. Nagash is the dead, and the dead are Nagash. You will see that soon, at least for a moment. You will serve me, and you will serve him. You will serve us forever, Arioso…’

Then there was only darkness and echoing laughter, and the chill of the grave.

About the Author

Graeme Lyon is the author of the Space Marine Battles novella Armour of Faith and the Warhammer 40,000 short stories ‘The Carnac Campaign: Sky Hunter’, ‘From the Flames’ and ‘Kor’sarro Khan: Huntmaster’, along with the Warhammer tales ‘Bride of Khaine’ and ‘The Hunter’. He hails from East Kilbride in Scotland, but now lives and works in Nottingham.

The Lords of Chaos gather their forces...
The Call of Chaos echoes across the Mortal Realms and into the grim darkness of the far future.

Two new serialised supplements, and new fiction for Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer Age of Sigmar.
Collect them all and answer the Call of Chaos.

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Published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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