Blood Tender

God-King’s backside, but they’re an ugly lot.’

Argulf’s minor blasphemy earned him an irritable look from Balius. Crouching amongst one of the rocky bluffs dotting Ghur’s wastes, the sun beating down ferociously, the Astral Templar’s scowl was grave. Argulf didn’t seem to mind. The spiralling charcoal-black tattoos daubed across the Vanguard-Raptor’s bearded face marked him as a former member of the Truthflame tribe of Aspiria, a people renowned for their faultless honesty. It had seen Argulf accused of insubordination more than once, but it also made the Stormcast a valuable source of advice.

Besides, Balius considered as he watched the ogors pick through the wreckage of the trading caravan, Argulf wasn’t wrong.

There were at least two dozen of the gluttonous monsters, easily enough to pose a threat. Each was clad in some garish hodgepodge of attire and carried an eclectic mixture of weaponry. Some of the brutes had gathered around a bonfire formed from the caravan’s wreckage, where a soot-covered shaman danced manically and spat out great gouts of flame. Others simply searched for any choice morsels to devour.

‘Can you get a clean shot?’ Balius asked. Argulf shifted, hefting his longstrike crossbow and aiming along its length.

‘A shot, yes. But only one. This is going to come down to blades, Hunter-Prime.’

Exhaling, Balius reached up and rubbed at his gritty eyes with the heel of a hand. The God-King had sent his Astral Templars, his conquerors of the wilderness, to claim the sundered Stormvault of Thunderstone Reach. They had done so. But victory’s taste had soured when the storm-augurs told the same tale, over and over – the Fist of Gork was coming. He was coming with all the beasts of the wastes. He was coming to smash open Thunderstone Reach and claim the treasure within, and that could not be permitted. The last few weeks had become an endless refrain of running down forward elements of Gordrakk’s horde, yet they showed no sign of stopping. Even an immortal could tire.

The Stormcasts had discovered the ogors plundering the wrecked caravan by chance. They were too late to aid the traders, but vengeance could still be taken. Other Astral Templars crouched amidst similar sites of rocky cover, whereas on the horizon the circling of Aetherwings denoted the position of ranging Palladors. All was in position. At his side, Blackclaw let out a quiet hiss. Balius’ armoured fingers dragged through the feathered ruff of the Gryph-hound’s neck as he nodded.

‘Now, Argulf. Remind these monsters who rules the realms.’

‘Aye, Hunter-Prime,’ Argulf replied. He turned to mutter a series of orders to his fellows; it was said that Argulf’s Raptors had once dropped a charging Stonehorn with a single thunderous volley. Having seen them in action, Balius could believe it.

The unlucky target was a particularly corpulent ogor lounging amidst the wreckage. He did not even have time to lift the salted Cockatrice haunch to his lips before the Raptors fired with a sharp crack. The body, drenched in blood cascading from a smoking hole in his neck, toppled to the ground with a crash. Blackclaw let out a predatory screech. It was the signal to strike.

With a feral cry, Balius erupted from cover, an explosion of maroon sigmarite and whipping fur cloak. At his side charged his fellow Hunters, pistols barking. Many of the shots merely staggered the hulking ogors, or were absorbed by their thick flesh. Other Vanguard were emerging, the distinctive screech of the Palladors’ riding beasts heralding their arrival as they charged in and skewered one of the ravening brutes. In a matter of moments, the ogors were surrounded.

That did not mean they were beaten. The formation adopted by the ogors – a rough defensive circle facing outwards – seemed copied from more professional forces rather than an instinctive decision, but it helped weather the storm. Even as several ogors fell, others returned fire with an assortment of looted heavy-duty blackpower weapons. Their combined fury tore through the Astral Templars, sending more than one streaking back to Azyr. Other ogors waited to accept the charge, and they too bore an exotic armoury. Aqshian sunblades, spike-studded anchors, and even stranger tools of war glinted in the mid-morning light.

Balius ducked beneath another salvo, firing his pistol in turn. His aim was true, judging from the roar of disoriented pain that heralded one of the ogors toppling backwards. Then, with storm-forged handaxe drawn, he leapt into the caravan wreckage. His hunter’s instincts had identified one ogor in particular amongst the mob.

With its gut protected by thick plates of iron, the ogor warchief did not try to back away from Balius’ attack. The brute stormed inside the arc of the blow, letting loose a roar that drenched the Stormcast in thick spittle. In one hand it clutched a wicked cleaver, in the other a brutal tenderiser. Despite its size the creature fought as an avalanche of steel; Balius ducked and weaved beneath each crushing blow, trying to find some sort of weak spot. If, indeed, this monster had any weak spots.

Balius could only catch snippets of the battle raging around him. A conclave of Palladors charged forth, zephyric lights flashing in their wake as the riders hurled crackling javelins. Their projectiles hit home with thuds of aetheric force, before the ogor fire-priest strode forth; with a howl the tattooed creature exhaled a wave of billowing flame, consuming one of the mounted Stormcasts and forcing the rest into a retreat. Ogor and Stormcast hacked at one another all around him. From the corner of his eye Balius spotted one of the creatures drive its fist straight through an Astral Templar’s helm and out the other side. Another ogor collapsed as Blackclaw tore through a hamstring, the ravenous monster soon felled by pinpoint-accurate fire from Argulf’s warriors.

The swing of a meaty fist forced the Hunter-Prime to refocus. Despite its many wounds, the ogor chief was a hoary veteran. The whirlwind of blows never ceased. With a roar the brute raised the tenderiser, bringing it down in a crushing hammer-blow. Balius did not have time to move aside; he raised his handaxe and locked its length against the hammer’s, muscles burning as he fought to keep the bludgeoning weapon at bay. Stinking breath washed over him as the ogor let out an ugly chortle. With a flex of muscle it exerted yet more force, driving Balius further into the ground. Sweat beaded on the Stormcast’s brow as he gritted his teeth and glared.

‘What was bowing before Gordrakk like?’ Balius growled. ‘Did you grovel? Did you kiss his green feet?’

‘Gordrakk?’ the ogor grunted. ‘Doesn’t matter to me what that git does. I don’t take orders from no stinking orruk unless he pays me.’

The ogor’s brief distraction gave Balius the opportunity to break the deadlock, angling the tenderiser away and slipping out of reach. Yet even as he darted backwards, axe still levelled warily, it was the creature’s words that gave him the most pause. He circled the beast slowly, eyes narrowed. The ogor watched him closely, but did not strike.

‘You’re not part of the Fist of Gork’s rabble?’ the Stormcast asked. ‘I’d presumed that this ruin was on his orders.’

‘Might’ve been,’ the ogor shrugged. ‘Weren’t nothin’ to do with us.’ As he spoke, the burly creature nodded towards the bonfire at the centre of the wreckage. It took Balius a few moments to make out what he was supposed to be seeing. Humans bodies burned there, but so too did burlier figures clad in scrap metal. Even as they burned, the Ironjawz were unmistakable. The Hunter-Prime’s eyes widened as his opponent nodded.

‘Found ’em doin’ over the last of your weedy kind. Too late for the soft-flesh, but we smashed them greenies pretty good. We were cooking ’em up for later when you interrupted us.’ The ogor captain gave a rotten-toothed grin. ‘Gordrakk ain’t the boss of me, favourite of the Gulping God or no. Wouldn’t mind taking a bite outta that lizard of his, though.’

A plan was forming in Balius’ mind. It was radical. It might, however, prove necessary. His eyes flicked away for a handful of moments before he looked back at the ogor, lowering his handaxe just a fraction.

‘What if I gave you that opportunity?’

Tension crackled in the air as, from beneath a furrowed brow, the ogor watched the Astral Templar for any sign of treachery. When none was forthcoming, the beast turned away and let out a bellowing roar. The sound corralled his fellows into lowering their weapons, albeit not without a measure of grumbling from some of the ogors. In turn, Balius aimed his boltstorm pistol skyward and discharged a trio of shots. It was enough to call off his own warriors, who largely looked round at him in bemusement.

‘Keep talkin’,’ said the ogor, as he rested his twin weapons over his meaty shoulders. A nodding gesture brought the ogor flame-priest wandering closer. ‘Listen to this, Ashur. This one’s got a thought in his skull.’

‘Gordrakk is coming,’ Balius said without preamble. He paused for a moment to listen as a bass growl reverberated through the air. The ogors bellies were rumbling. He could work with that. ‘He is bringing his armies with him, and he is sending out war parties as their vanguard. Much like the ones you slew here, I would imagine. Let us be honest with one another, creature. You would not be bothering to hunt down wandering orruks unless you had not had a proper meal in a long while.’

The ogor flame-priest, Ashur, let out a grunt of displeasure at the accusation. For a moment Balius tensed, preparing himself to fight once more, but the shaman soon spoke up again. His voice was the grinding of the deep earth, cinders sparking in his breath with each exhalation.

‘And what do you care? You’d grant us a feast of flesh if we burn alongside you, is that it?’

‘I am not asking you to stand before Gordrakk’s armies in their entirety,’ Balius replied. ‘Only to help us slow down their outriders. My brothers and sisters are preparing to bring him to battle proper, but they need all the assistance they can get. Fight by our side, and you will have all the orruks to feed on that you could ever want. Besides,’ he added, allowing himself a brief grim smile. ‘It isn’t like you can eat us.’

The point seemed sound to several of the ogors, Ashur included. Still, the chief – likely the shaman’s right hand – did not look convinced. Balius stared at him for a few moments before sighing and rolling his eyes.

‘And, yes ... if they bring a Maw-krusha, I will let you eat that too.’

‘Now we’re talking’,’ the ogor chief grinned. A few of the Templars stared at Balius in abject horror. He held their gazes grimly; they would need aid to slow the horde and give enough time to prepare for Gordrakk’s arrival. Balius tried not to flinch as the ogor clapped him on the shoulder.

‘So, stormflesh ... about these green blighters you need doin’ over.’

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

Blood Tender © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. Blood Tender, Forbidden Power, 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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