the eighth Victory

Graeme Lyon

‘For the glory of the Blood God, death comes to you!’ Krev Deathstalker’s voice rose above the clamour of battle as he brought his great axe down on the gleaming silver armour of the Stormcast Eternal at his feet. The warrior rolled away and the axe bit into blood-soaked earth. Krev roared and pulled it out, batting away the Stormcast’s strike.

He took a step back and looked at the warrior. His armour was ruined, the shining silver plates dented and scuffed, mud and gore obscuring the symbols of the hated God-King that adorned its surfaces.

The Stormcast raised his sword and hammer and readied himself for Krev’s attack. The impassive gilded mask he wore gave no emotion away, but Krev would have sworn the warrior was smiling.

‘Death seems to be keeping his distance,’ the Stormcast said, his voice echoing strangely from behind the mask. ‘Maybe he waits for you.’

Krev swung his axe, and the Stormcast deflected it with his sword and brought his hammer round in a smooth arc that missed Krev by a hair’s breadth. The silver-armoured warrior pressed on, and Krev was forced back, step by step, desperately parrying the Stormcast’s blows. He kicked out, his boot catching the Stormcast’s shin. The warrior fell, giving Krev a moment’s reprieve. He circled the Stormcast and hefted his axe.

The silver warrior got back to his feet and spun around. His cloak flared and bolts of magic in the form of shimmering hammers flung themselves at Krev. He battered one away with his axe, but the others struck home, and he grunted in pain. The Stormcast pressed forwards again, and a punishing blow knocked the axe from Krev’s hands. Then he felt pain as the sword sliced into the meat of his leg and forced him to one knee. The Stormcast dropped his hammer, kicked Krev’s axe away and took his sword in both hands.

‘Thus will end all tyrants,’ he intoned, his voice sepulchral. ‘Sigmar decrees–’

He was cut off as a huge beast barrelled into him, knocking the sword from his grip and him to the ground. Krev smiled and pulled himself to his feet.

‘Well done, my pet,’ he said. The flesh hound howled, then bounded off in the direction of more enemies. Krev stooped and picked up the Stormcast’s fallen sword.

‘Sigmar decrees, does he?’ he hissed down at the mud-caked armoured warrior. ‘When you see him, tell him Krev Deathstalker spits on his decrees.’

Krev swung the sword and parted the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders. The head rolled for a moment, then both it and the warrior’s body dissolved into shimmering particles of light. Krev threw down the sword as it too discorporated. There was a flash and a sound like thunder, and the Stormcast vanished.

Krev looked around for more foes, but it seemed that the battle was all but won. He saw Garsa battling a knot of winged Stormcasts. The skullgrinder’s anvil swung in wide arcs on the end of its chain, catching the Prosecutors and pulling them from the air. Elsewhere, twin deathbringers fought back-to-back, axes whirling and shields parrying the huge lightning-wreathed hammers of a handful of Retributors.

Most impressive of all was Koroth, the tribe’s head deathbringer. The horned champion led a group of blood warriors against a line of Stormcast Liberators. Wherever his great ruinous axe fell, a Stormcast died.

‘Truly, Khorne favours him,’ said a voice behind Krev. He turned, axe raised, and saw the tall, rangy form of Drane, his remaining slaughterpriest. The old man’s axe was bloodied, and gore streaked his face and chest.

‘We are all favoured, Drane. We have now won seven mighty victories in the Blood God’s name against these celestial invaders. We are all exalted in His sight.’

‘We are, my lord,’ agreed the slaughterpriest. ‘And none more so than you. But even so… He is powerful indeed.’

‘And he serves me, priest. Does that not make me more powerful still?’

Drane said nothing for a time, eyeing Krev carefully. Finally he nodded. ‘As you say, my lord.’

The battle was over and the victory celebrations were in full swing. There had been feasting around the funeral pyre, the survivors feeding on choice meat from the fallen. Warriors now boasted of deeds performed in combat, compared fresh scars and competed in contests of martial skill.

But Drane was troubled. He sat apart from the revelry, considering the number of the dead compared to those left alive. He watched Krev, and he wondered what was to come.

Eventually, the warlord stood up to address the throng. All went quiet, and every eye was on Krev. He walked around the fire, gazing into its depths, and then looked around at the gathered warriors.

‘Seven victories have we won against Sigmar’s servants.’

There was cheering from drunken bloodreavers. Krev ignored it and raised his voice. ‘Seven mighty armies have they sent against us, and seven times they have been sent back to their heavenly home to answer for their failure before their God-King.’

He paused and looked around, catching Drane’s eye. The slaughterpriest saw something in Krev’s gaze, and looked away.

‘We stand on the edge of destiny, my Deathstalkers. Seven great victories… aye, that is the stuff of legends. But eight…’

He paused again.

‘Eight is a holy number, as we all know. We walk the eightfold path. Eight champions follow me and lead you into battle. Eight warbands make up our tribe. So what power will be ours when we have an eighth victory against this foe? How will Khorne reward us for honouring Him so?’

There were more cheers and chanting of the Blood God’s name.

‘I will tell you how, my friends, for the Blood God has spoken to me. He demands one more victory, one more great slaughter in His name. And when we secure it, I shall ascend to immortality. I will become a daemon prince and bestride the Mortal Realms like a colossus!’

As the cheering reached a fever pitch, Drane’s eyes sought out the other members of the Gorechosen, Krev’s champions.

The four deathbringers sat together. Each was newly ordained as a member of the Gorechosen, replacing heroes killed in the seven battles the tribe had fought over the past months. They were young and believed wholeheartedly in Krev’s vision for their future. Even now, they gazed at the warlord with rapt attention.

Garsa the skullgrinder sat amidst a knot of blood warriors. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on Krev. Near him was Cheren, resting his broad back against the great icon of Khorne he carried into battle. The bloodsecrator looked as though he were asleep, though Drane was sure he was taking in every word.

Finally, he looked over at Koroth. Like Drane, he sat alone, at the very edge of the circle of flickering firelight. He was running a whetstone over the blade of his ruinous axe and glaring at the warlord with undisguised contempt.

‘That bodes ill,’ whispered the slaughterpriest to himself. ‘That bodes ill indeed…’

‘This cannot continue.’

Garsa’s voice cut above the tumult. The rest of the Gorechosen fell into silence as they turned to look at him. The celebration was over and the tribe had returned to their tents, save those who lay slumped unconscious, worse the wear for drinks or headbutting contests. Only the Gorechosen remained, drawn together by the need to discuss what would happen next.

‘Krev is our lord, Koroth. What would you have us do?’ said Drane calmly. The tall, lean slaughterpriest stepped forwards into the firelight and looked Garsa up and down. ‘Would you challenge him?’

Koroth was silent. Drane snorted dismissively and turned away.

‘I thought not. None of you would dare to test yourselves against him. You would not have done so months ago, and now, as he nears his apotheosis, you are even less likely to. Cowards, every one of you. You speak and speak, moan and complain, but will not act.’

‘You call us cowards, old man?’ demanded Koroth. ‘You, who can barely lift an axe, so far are you in your dotage?’

Drane laughed and turned to Koroth. ‘Do you care to test me, deathbringer? You fear to challenge our master, so you take out your frustrations on an old man?’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ the deathbringer growled, knuckles whitening as he gripped his axe.

Drane turned away from Koroth and addressed the rest of the Gorechosen.

‘Krev has led us to victory after victory, and he is not wrong about the reward that awaits him.’

‘What of the rest of us?’ asked Cheren. ‘Our numbers are few. Would our lord throw our lives away in pursuit of his own destiny?’

‘If we are to sacrifice ourselves to secure Krev’s ascension, then I will willingly give my life,’ declared Jiang. The young deathbringer’s eyes glowed with the light of a true fanatic, and Drane didn’t doubt that he meant what he said.

‘What of the rest of you?’ he asked. ‘If our lord’s victory requires you to lay down your lives, will you do so?’

There was a long silence.

‘No,’ growled Koroth eventually. ‘I will not. We have won these battles for him, and we will share in his victory, or take it from him for ourselves. I will challenge him. And I will defeat him.’

Krev emerged from his tent in the harsh morning light to find the eight warriors of his Gorechosen awaiting him. They were arrayed in a semicircle, with Koroth at the apex.

‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘What do you want, my champions?’

‘The course you are taking us on is madness,’ said Koroth softly. ‘I will have no further part in it. The battles we have fought have reduced our numbers to almost nothing. We need new blood if we are to shed more in Khorne’s name.’

‘We are on the verge of greatness, deathbringer,’ said Krev. ‘Surely you see that?’

‘I see that you care only for your own fate,’ the deathbringer replied. ‘As a warrior, that is fitting. As a leader… it is not. And so I challenge you, Krev Deathstalker. Face me in single combat for the leadership of the tribe.’

Krev stared into his champion’s face, and smiled. ‘Very well. We fight to the death.’

‘To the death,’ agreed Koroth.

Krev spread his arms and gestured to the gathered Gorechosen. ‘Well? What are you waiting for, deathbringer? You want my head… come and take it.’

Koroth lifted his axe and nodded. ‘Aye.’ He leapt, axe raised over his head, and brought it down in a scything arc that would have split Krev in two had it connected. The warlord sidestepped it calmly.

‘You are mighty, deathbringer. Exalted indeed. But you will not win this battle.’

Koroth snorted and lashed out, swinging the ruinous axe one-handed at Krev’s neck. The warlord ducked beneath the blow and punched the deathbringer in the stomach, knocking him backwards. The champion growled in anger.

‘Draw your axe and face me properly, Krev!’ he roared.

‘I have no need of my axe,’ Krev said calmly. ‘I have the favour of the Blood God.’

‘You are a fool, drunk on your own power and convinced of your immortality. I shall show you the lie of that!’ Koroth swung his axe again, catching Krev with the flat and knocking him flying. He rolled and swiftly rose to his feet. The pair circled one another, and Krev noticed that the rest of the Gorechosen had moved to surround them. He smiled and threw back his head, shouting to the heavens.

‘My lord Khorne, master of war, taker of skulls, spiller of blood, hear my prayer. Aid your devoted servant, prove to all present that I am in your favour. Strike down this upstart, and bring me victory.’

For a moment, there was silence. Koroth stopped pacing and just stared at Krev.

‘Is that your plan, warlord? Call upon Khorne to kill me because you cannot?’ He laughed. ‘You die now.’ He stepped forward, swinging his axe underarm, and caught Krev on the chest, tearing a long cut into his flesh. The warlord staggered back, and Koroth turned to the Gorechosen.

‘You see? This is what we follow. A coward who knows he cannot defeat me and in desperation calls for aid that will never…’

He trailed off as a rumble of thunder sounded, like the laughter of a god, and a shadow passed overhead. He looked up and saw a vast crimson cloud. As he watched, it began to rain. Thick drops of bright red blood fell, staining the earth where they landed. Krev stretched out his arms to welcome the shower.

‘You were saying, Koroth?’

The deathbringer shook his horned head and snarled. ‘Trickery. And how is this supposed to...’ His words became a strangled scream as the first drops of blood hit his flesh, which sizzled and burned. ‘What is… How did you…?’ The shower became a deluge and Koroth screamed as he was consumed, burned to ash by the downpour.

Krev stepped forwards and gazed at each of the seven remaining Gorechosen in turn. He gestured to the pile of ashes that had been his deathbringer.

‘Would anyone else like to challenge me?’

In the days that followed, the tribe prepared for their greatest battle, the one that would raise their lord to daemonhood and exalt them all in the Blood God’s eyes. Word of Krev’s victory over Koroth spread quickly, and it seemed that none now doubted that he was favoured by the Blood God, or that another victory would be theirs. Yet Drane was still troubled.

The deathbringer had been vital to the battles over the past months. Without his might, and with their reduced numbers, they would struggle against another Stormcast host. Krev knew that, so why had he let the deathbringer die? The slaughterpriest had tried to raise the matter with the warlord, but Krev had brushed his concerns aside with more talk of destiny.

Now the scouts had brought word of an army of Stormcasts marching from the shores of the Barren Sea, and there was no more time to ponder the question. Battle would be joined in a matter of hours, and the outcome was uncertain.

He looked along the battle lines. Once, there had been thousands. Now, there were mere hundreds, most of them unarmoured, ill-disciplined bloodreavers. Here and there stood knots of blood warriors, their axes notched and shields dented. Even smaller groups of wrathmongers daubed themselves in blood and offered prayers to Khorne. The remaining members of the Gorechosen were stationed along the line to lend their skill at arms and leadership to the warriors around them.

‘It won’t be enough,’ he said aloud.

‘It will, Drane,’ said Krev behind him.

‘My lord, we are too few. I have tried to ignore this fact and trust to faith, but my faith is in steel and my worship to the Blood God is done in battle. And I look at this army and know that steel will not be enough against Sigmar’s chosen.’

Krev shook his head. ‘You understand so little, slaughterpriest. Khorne’s favour is with me. I will ascend. And nothing else matters.’

Drane opened his mouth to reply, but Krev held up his hand. ‘You and I shall watch the battle from behind our lines,’ he ordered.

Horror engulfed the slaughterpriest. ‘My lord,’ he protested, ‘with so few warriors, our strength will be required. And to not fight–’

‘My word is final, Drane. Trust that I know what I am about.’

The warlord turned and stomped away, leaving Drane to his dark thoughts.

Battle was joined at dawn. The Stormcasts’ army was small, just a few hundred warriors, but each was huge, clad in near-impenetrable armour of a turquoise hue, and the power of the storm played about them and their weapons. At their centre was an immense figure, swathed in a crimson cloak and riding upon the back of a great armoured reptile. The figure gestured with his hammer and the Stormcasts began to march.

A mob of howling bloodreavers was the first to engage. They charged into the Stormcast shield wall, axes swinging. Stormcasts fell, but too few. For every one of the armoured warriors that returned to the heavens in a bolt of crackling lightning, five bloodreavers were gutted and left dying in the dirt.

The twin deathbringers were the first of the Gorechosen to die. They drove too far into the enemy lines, with too small a warband at their back, and were surrounded. They fought bravely and well, taking a score of Stormcast Liberators with them, but eventually they were cut down. Drane delivered the news to Krev. To his surprise and consternation, the warlord smiled.

‘They died well,’ he said. ‘What more could they ask?’

Cheren the bloodsecrator was the next to fall. He had planted his icon in the earth and defended it fiercely, a cadre of blood warriors around him. He called upon the power of the icon, invoking the wrath of Khorne. Around him, reality had split open and the Realm of Chaos had merged with the mortal world. The Stormcasts attacking him were immense warriors with axes the size of a man, which could dismember several warriors with one mighty strike. As the ground became brass and the air filled with sulphurous fumes, their progress had slowed, but it was not enough. They struggled forwards, cutting down blood warriors with every step, and eventually Cheren was overwhelmed. He died with his axe in hand and Khorne’s name on his lips. With his death, the left flank of the Deathstalkers crumbled and victory looked increasingly unlikely.

Drane returned to Krev’s side.

‘My lord, I beseech you, let me join the battle. We face defeat unless–’

‘You will join the battle when I tell you to and not before, slaughterpriest.’

‘My lord, I do not understand your strategy.’

Krev turned on him, eyes blazing. For the first time, Drane noticed the nimbus of power that surrounded the warlord. He bowed and stepped away as dark suspicions began to form about what Krev was doing.

On the right flank, the skullgrinder and his small warband of wrathmongers came up against the leader of the Stormcast host. Garsa’s first swing of his anvil was a good one, caving in the skull of the beast on which the Lord-Celestant rode and throwing him to the ground. A follow-up strike met the Stormcast’s hammer, giving the warrior time to rise to his feet. He threw off his cloak and faced the skullgrinder, while his bodyguard, armed with rune-inscribed polearms, duelled with the wrathmongers.

The battle between the Lord-Celestant and the skullgrinder was long and gruelling. With each swing of his anvil, Garsa caved in sigmarite armour plates and broke bones, but the Stormcast stayed standing. Where his hammer struck home, crackling lightning burned the skullgrinder’s flesh. Both warriors slowed as the fight dragged on, and eventually, Garsa dropped his weapon and launched himself at the Stormcast with a roar of inarticulate rage. He tore the turquoise helmet from the warrior’s head and grabbed his throat, lifting him bodily from the ground, squeezing. Even as bones popped and his throat was crushed, the Stormcast used the last of his strength to strike one more time, and the head of his hammer obliterated the skullgrinder’s torso in a discharge of celestial power.

Both warriors fell to the ground. The Stormcast’s body disappeared into a crackling arc of energy that shot skywards, and Garsa was trampled into the dirt.

The remaining two deathbringers fell as the Stormcasts overran the rest of the Deathstalkers. Their deaths were not glorious, but they were bloody.

‘Do you understand now, slaughterpriest?’

Drane turned to see Krev standing behind him, axe in hand. The warlord appeared larger than ever, and the power that had played around him now seemed to infuse his entire body. The priest shook his head slowly.

‘No, my lord. This is no victory. And yet, the power around you is palpable. Whatever your plan was, it has succeeded.’

‘Almost, my old friend. Only one last thing remains to be done.’ The warlord raised his axe, and suddenly Drane understood.

‘This battle was never going to be your eighth victory,’ he said. ‘We were.’

Krev nodded as he advanced. ‘Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, as you know well. He accepts the deaths of his followers as readily as his foes. And sometimes they are preferable. He thirsts for skulls, Drane, and they are one thing he cannot get from these Stormcasts.’

‘The battles we won were to draw Khorne’s attention to you,’ the slaughterpriest said. ‘The real sacrifice was the skulls of your champions.’

‘Eight skulls of worthy heroes, given in battle. The first he claimed for himself when I asked. That was when I knew for sure.’

‘The duel,’ Drane said.

‘Yes. And now he has another six. Only one remains, slaughterpriest. Yours. Will you give it willingly, or will you fight me?’

Drane took a deep breath and raised his axe, gripping it tightly in both hands.

‘I will fight you, Krev Deathstalker. My honour will allow me to do nothing else.’

‘Good,’ smiled Krev. ‘Die well, Drane.’

Meros Oathkeeper, Lord-Relictor of the Celestial Vindicators, held up a hand to halt the advance of the Judicators around him.

‘Hold,’ he ordered. ‘What is happening up there?’

On a ridge behind the shattered remnants of the Chaos force, two figures clashed in single combat. Both were huge, one thin and rangy, the other bulky and glowing with barely suppressed power. Both fought with impressive skill, swinging huge axes with speed and grace, dodging and weaving like pugilists.

‘They turn on one another,’ scoffed Iator, the Judicator-Prime. The warrior raised his bow and nocked an arrow. ‘Shall I finish one of them, my lord?’

Meros shook his head. ‘No. This feels like something in which we should not intervene.’

He would live to regret that decision, though not for long. As he watched, the bulkier figure gained the upper hand, lashing out with a blow that cut through the haft of the other’s axe and knocked him back a step. It was followed by an upwards strike that split the thin figure from groin to collarbone. He fell to the earth and the victor threw down his axe and began to laugh.

The aura of power around him grew blinding, and Meros was forced to look away. He could feel a change in the air, and his senses screamed danger.

‘Shoot him,’ he screamed. ‘Kill him before–’

It was too late. The figure’s laugh became a scream, of pain and rage and… triumph? The light faded and Meros looked back. The warrior’s skin was sloughing away, muscles melting and veins unravelling, forming a cloud of bloody matter around the figure. His bones stretched and warped, growing and becoming coated with what looked like brass. The bloody cloud grew and closed back in on the enlarged skeleton, clothing it once again in muscle and flesh, slick and blood red.

‘Daemon,’ Meros breathed. ‘Daemon! Take it down!’

The Judicators took aim and fired, but their arrows melted as they came close to the figure. It laughed again, and now the sound was booming and inhuman. The newly birthed daemon prince turned to Meros and grinned, revealing rows of sharp fangs in a bloody maw. It gestured, and an immense axe coalesced in its hand.

The daemon prince raised the axe into the air.

‘Come forth, children of the Blood God!’ it roared, and from nowhere stepped creatures of blood and brass, lean and long-limbed and carrying barbed swords. Rank after rank of them materialised, brought into the Mortal Realms through the thinned barrier between reality and Chaos.

‘This battle is lost,’ Meros yelled. ‘Fall back, brothers. Fall back!’

They retreated, but Meros couldn’t tear his eyes from the daemon prince. It rose into the air, carried by great black wings, and swooped down towards him.

Meros Oathkeeper was dead in an instant. He didn’t even have time to raise his hammer.

Krev Deathstalker, daemon prince of Khorne, pulled the Stormcast’s head from his body and cast it aside as it dissipated. Around him, a horde of daemons poured from the Blood God’s realm, laying into the celestial warriors with their hellblades. They fought bravely, but the daemons were too many and the Stormcasts too few after their conflict with the Deathstalkers. All too soon, the battle was won.

The eighth victory was his.

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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