The Scent

Reshevious clung to the rail of his chariot, enjoying the delicious sensation of its inset needles piercing his palms. The Champion of Slaanesh was tall and powerfully built, clad in interwoven strips of leather armour that clung to his perfumed flesh. Piercings festooned his body. Tattoos wound across his quivering mutations, while his lustrous mane of silver hair flowed behind him like a comet’s trail.

‘Faster,’ bellowed Reshevious, hurling a handful of psychotropic incense into the brazier on his chariot’s running board. ‘Always faster! The Dark Prince awaits!’

The Champion’s chariot was a monstrous construction of gold and silver, encrusted with gems and whirring steel blades. It was hauled along at breakneck pace by six Steeds of Slaanesh, and mounted a great spike that rose vertical from its foremost yoke. Lashed to this with barbed chains was a lumpen mutant, its limbs atrophied, its nostrils and ears massive and grotesque, its eyes replaced by deep and dripping olfactory pits. Known as the Inhilus, the gibbering thing had been Reshevious’ guide since he had begun his quest to find Slaanesh many years ago.

Behind Reshevious came his Scarlet Cavalcade, dozens of twisted mortal warriors adorned with freakish armour, that clung to the backs of lithe daemonic steeds. They screamed and whooped as they rode, battering away at barbed gongs that rang like shattering glass. The cavalcade was a riot of colour and sound, utterly at odds with the shadowed wilds of Ulgu through which they rode.

Reshevious hated this place, with its monochrome mists, its shadowy suggestions of trees hulking all around, and the ancient ruins that towered up from the forest like the bones of long-dead cathedrals scraping at the ink-black sky. All was silence and stillness here; the cavalcade’s clangour echoed away into nothingness and was swallowed by the dark.

Yet here was where the Inhilus’ screams had led them, and so here they continued their hunt.

Bacchinux, Reshevious’ standard bearer, drew level with the chariot, urging his steed along while the great banner’s flesh-streamers snapped and flailed.

‘Great lord,’ shouted Bacchinux. ‘Whither doth the Inhilus lead? Dullsome drab is’t hereabouts; stale grows the revel!’

Reshevious flexed one powerful arm, his bonewhip slithering wetly from his wrist. He lashed the weapon sideways, raising a savage welt across Bacchinux’ chest. The banner-bearer howled with a heady mix of pain, anger and glee.

‘Never question,’ snarled Reshevious. ‘Never deliberate. Simply act. This you know.’

‘’Tis the Prince’s will,’ gasped Bacchinux. ‘And yet…’

Reshevious flexed his whip again, knowing full well that his underling sought and relished the pain of punishment. His blow was stayed by a wordless scream from the Inhilus. The mutant screeched and writhed in its chains, cutting its fat flesh bloody as it strained forwards.

‘The scent!’ roared Reshevious, his booming voice carrying back down the line of the cavalcade. ‘The Inhilus has the Scent! Faster, unworthy dogs, always faster!’

The champion hauled on his razored reins, turning his steeds and sending his chariot careening in a long arc through the half-seen trees. Flocks of shadows burst from the boughs as he raced beneath them, echoing suggestions of carrion birds whose cawing cries teased the edge of hearing. A vast ruin loomed up ahead.

Mist swirled and parted as Reshevious’ chariot swept towards the gothic carcass without slowing. His sharp eyes picked out a blurring archway between the rock face walls; with a twitch of the reins, he sped into the stone maw.

It was speed that saved him.

Reshevious’ chariot burst from the gloomy tunnel into a play of silver light, so quickly that the rain of javelins which greeted him instead struck the Seekers at his heels. Bacchinux fell, pierced through by a half-dozen bronze-tipped spears. He and his steed bounced and rolled to a gory stop. More Seekers went down in that first volley, but more still burst from the tunnel with howls of glee.

Reshevious took in the ambush in a heartbeat. The tunnel had led them into the interior of an ancient fane, roofless and hollow with shattered walls. A wide ramp of black stone stretched up from the ruin’s heart, flanked by crumbled statues of ancient gods and terminating in a triangular portal of silver light. Hundreds upon hundreds of barbarian warriors packed the ruins, massed to either side of the tunnel mouth and gathered thick upon the ramp. It was they that had hurled the javelins, and were even now preparing to launch another salvo.

‘Darkoath!’ shrieked Reshevious. ‘Dull pantheonites! Worshippers of all, favoured of none! Into them, Seekers!’

Reshevious didn’t question how these enemies had known where to set their ambush. He didn’t consider the impossible odds set against him.

Never question.

Never deliberate.

Simply act.

The charge hit home in an explosive welter of blood. Severed heads and limbs flew as Reshevious’ chariot ploughed deep into the enemy lines. Seekers howled their glee as their spears punched through chests and faces. Steeds trilled and lashed their binding tongues to throttle and entrap.

For long, glorious moments the ambushers reeled as the sheer headlong insanity of the Slaaneshi charge overwhelmed them.

Then came the slowing, the loss of impetus, massed bodies pushing back, spears thrusting and axes swinging and blades stabbing deep. Reshevious cracked his whip and bellowed at the joyous promise of pain.

‘Enough!’

The command rang out over the clangour of battle, a woman’s voice, powerful and filled with such unquestionable authority that even Reshevious hesitated. His quick gaze sought out the source. There she stood, atop the ruin of an ancient statue. She was tall, powerful, clad in barbarous finery, surely a queen amongst her people. Yet it was her gaze that held him. Such ferocity, such an ironclad strength of will; Reshevious could not remember ever feeling such a thrill of superiority from another living creature.

Throwing back his head, the champion gave an ululating scream that echoed around the ruins. At his signal, the Seekers stopped their attack, chests heaving as they waited avidly to see what would happen next.

‘We fight for the regard of almighty Slaanesh,’ he cried. ‘If madness it be, it is of the most delightful kind!’

‘You seek Slaanesh,’ replied the queen. ‘And yet you throw your lives away in this fruitless battle against enemies you cannot defeat. An unworthy end to a failed quest.’

‘Your ambush was an invitation we gladly accepted,’ said Reshevious. ‘What more worthy end could a champion of the Dark Gods know?’

‘You could find him,’ she said. ‘Find him and bring with you the numbers needed to unleash him once more upon the Mortal Realms. I have those numbers and more to spare, armies ten times the size of this horde and more.’

‘And we have the Inhilus, and the favour of the Dark Prince,’ said Reshevious. ‘An alliance, you seek then? Why? What do you gain by this? And why greet us with blades if you desire our aid?’

‘My reasons are my own,’ replied the queen. ‘As to the blades? I did not need all of you…’

Reshevious paused for a moment, then burst into shrieks of wild mirth. He took in the horde around him, imagined an army vastly greater still marching at his back. So many sacrifices for the Dark Prince, when at last he was found.

‘Very well, you have your alliance,’ he said. ‘Now clear a path, for the Scent leads us onwards. Keeping pace, that is your own concern…’

Reshevious flexed his bone whip and cracked it across the backs of his steeds. Barbarian warriors scrambled aside as the chariot surged forwards, and the Inhilus gave a scream of pure need, straining towards the ramp. The Seekers rode out, thundering up the ramp towards the glowing portal at its crest. The queen raised her fist in a single gesture, and as one the Darkoath warriors followed.

On, to wherever the Dark Prince waited…

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

The Scent © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. The Scent, Malign Portents, GW, Games Workshop, Warhammer, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world. All Rights Reserved.

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