Implacable, he had fought his way towards the setting sun, through enemies great and small. All to reach the Road of Blades. But now that he was here, he felt — not anticipation. Wariness, perhaps. His instincts had been honed on a thousand battlefields. If this was a test, he had not yet passed it.
Ahazian tightened his grip on his weapons and increased his pace. He could feel the broken blades turning beneath him, like serpents stirring in their sleep. As if the road were waking up. The ashes grew thick, filling his mouth and stinging his eyes. They swirled about the road, caught in the eternal heat of their burning.
He stopped. He thought he’d seen something, in the ashes. Like the outline of a shape. Almost human, but not quite. More of them, now. Following behind him, approaching him from ahead. Crowding him. The weapons were clattering again. But the sound had changed. It was almost… eager? ‘Ha,’ he said, softly. ‘So be it.’
The first blade rose up like an adder, and he crushed it with his skullhammer. A second tore itself free of the road and whirled towards him, borne aloft in a cloud of ash. Two more followed its example. An axe wrenched itself upright and spun towards his head. He bulled forward, knowing that to hesitate was to be overwhelmed. To stop and fight was the impulse of all warriors, but it was better to seek out a true challenge than to shed blood for no purpose. There were no enemies here, only the echoes of a defeated people. Khorne might not care from whence the blood flowed, but Ahazian did, especially if it promised to be his own.
He pressed on, smashing weapons aside. Beneath the rattle of metal and the hiss of ash, he thought he heard voices, cursing him, or warning him. The souls of the dead, perhaps, or maybe even those who’d failed to meet the road’s challenge. Arrowheads dug into his flesh like fangs as he swatted the axe from the air. Swords drew sparks from his shoulder-plates and back-plate. A spear blade crashed against his greave, and twisted away. Only once did he stumble, when a length of chain tangled his legs. But a quick strike with his goreaxe freed him, before the rest could take advantage.
Ahazian was bleeding from a score of wounds when he reached what he’d sought. The gateway rose up out of nothing, a coruscating vortex composed of swirling ash, splinters of molten metal, and a harsh, eye-searing light. It was not a physical thing, so much as the memory of one. Not a true gate, but a wound cut into the flesh of Aqshy, bleeding heat and light. Sweat beaded on his flesh as he approached the light, goreaxe raised to shield his eyes. Behind him, the road undulated. Weapon points gleamed in the raw light of the gateway as they surged towards him. He did not slow, or hesitate. He hurled himself through the gate.
He slammed down onto a hard, metal surface. He clambered to his feet and took in his surroundings at a glance. Fumes of sulphurous gas hung thick upon the dense air, partially obscuring the heights above, and the depths below. The gantry he stood on was a narrow strip of heat-scarred iron, extending over an indistinct molten expanse, far below. The path ahead led to a massive portcullis, wrought from brass and stone in the shape of raging flames. The portcullis itself was set into some vast, central edifice, the shape of which he found himself unable to comprehend. From everywhere echoed the din of industry and the grinding of stone. The noise was a force unto itself, battering at his senses.
The gantry vibrated from the quaquaversal reverberation, creaking in its vague moorings. Ahazian caught sight of movement some distance above him. Another gantry, gleaming like silver, stretched towards the central edifice from out of the choking haze. A lean figure strode across it, carrying a broad-bladed impaling spear over its shoulder. The figure stopped, as if it had caught sight of Ahazian. It shouted something, but the words were lost in the clamour. A greeting, or maybe a challenge.
‘It seems that I am not alone on this path, then. No matter.’ Ahazian raised his goreaxe in salute. A roar from below dragged his eyes downward, towards a third gantry, composed of what appeared to be fire-blackened bones. A heavy figure, clad in heavy armour the colour of clotting blood, glared up at him. It clutched an axe in one hand and had a heavy shield strapped to its other arm. ‘A path of silver, a path of bones, and a path of fire,’ Ahazian muttered. Perhaps the Road of Blades was not so unique as the stories had made out.
The bulky warrior below began to lumber towards what Ahazian suspected was his own portcullis. Annoyance flared in him. He had come too far to be beaten to his goal by some plodding oaf. He broke into a run. But as he did so, he felt the gantry begin to shudder and buck. He staggered, and nearly fell, as the portcullis ground open with a clatter of chains. Something massive stepped out onto the juddering gantry.
It was not alive, at least not in any way he recognised. It was shaped like a man, though it was the size of one of the gargants said to dwell in the Firepeaks. Its hide was brass and blackened iron, and it was draped with smoking chains. Vents spewed smoke whenever it moved. Its head was a mockery of his own helmet, and it clutched an enormous axe in its talons. With a grinding roar, it lurched towards him, axe raised. With every step, it caused the gantry to shudder and groan.
‘Another test? Another stone on which to hone my edge — come then. I fear nothing that walks.’ Ahazian’s weapons hummed in his grip as he lunged to meet the automaton. They were eager for battle, even against something that could not bleed. The great axe hissed down, and he twisted aside, nearly losing his footing. He struck out at the automaton’s joints, trying to slow it down. But it ignored his attacks the way he’d ignored the arrows of the Caldera earlier.
It was a weapon, and felt no pain from his blows, which only added to his frustration. ‘Scream, damn you — howl, shriek, something,’ he growled. Screams were his music, and never before had he been denied them. Even the bark-skinned sylvaneth screamed. But this thing refused to give him his due. Then, conceivably, that was the point. Like the living weapons of the road, this thing was not to be fought — but avoided.
Filled with new certainty, Ahazian hunched forward, avoiding a sweeping blow that would have removed his head, and threw himself between its legs. He rolled to his feet as it turned towards him, gears whining. Then, with a shout, he brought his skullhammer down on the trembling surface of the gantry. The iron had been weakened by the automaton’s weight, and it burst at the point of impact. The automaton staggered towards him, axe raised for a killing blow. Chunks of hot metal spattered across his helmet as he struck the gantry again and again. Then, with a final, echoing screech, the iron gave way and the gantry collapsed, carrying the automaton with it. The thing plunged down into the molten depths below.
Ahazian heard a creaking behind him and turned, expecting to see a second automaton. Instead, he saw the bars of the portcullis descending. They meant to trap him out here, whoever they were. He snarled in anger and sprang to stop it. But even as he moved, he knew he wouldn’t reach it in time. With a roar, he sent his goreaxe spinning towards the portcullis. The weapon wedged itself between the bars and the stone frame of the gateway, slowing the mechanism’s descent. Sparks flashed as the metal of the blade bit at the stonework.
The Deathbringer dived through the gateway even as his goreaxe snapped in two, and the portcullis slammed down. He glanced at the remains of the weapon. Another test. One of sacrifice. Ahazian found himself in an immense, circular antechamber, hewn from volcanic rock. The walls were bare, save for thick pillars of feldspar and eight portals, including the one he’d entered through. ‘Smaller than I thought it’d be,’ he said. On the floor was a mosaic of images — daemons, warriors, gods, all locked in battle — curling around colossal grates. Above him, the chamber stretched up into a smoky darkness.