The skin between his shoulder blades itched and he peered upwards. Between the pillars, he glimpsed what might have been individual tiers or levels, lit by firelight. This was only the bottom level, then. He heard the ringing of hammers on anvils, and the hiss of hot metal being cooled. Distant voices spoke, but he could not make out their words. The air stank of smoke and blood.
‘Are we expected to fight our way to the top, then?’ someone rumbled. Ahazian turned to see the brutish warrior he’d noticed before stump through an archway marked with symbols of death. The warrior’s armour was gashed and dented in places, and he’d lost his shield, but he still had his axe. Strange charms and tokens hung from his neck, and his breastplate was etched with scenes of battle. His helmet was crafted in the shape of a skull, and the haft of his axe was a human femur. He waved the weapon at Ahazian. ‘Answer me, fool, or I shall gut you and read the answer in your entrails.’
Ahazian stepped back towards the centre of the chamber. Perhaps this was the last test. A trial by combat, to see who was worthy of the Soulmaw’s gifts. ‘Do not make threats you cannot keep, brute.’ He spread his arms. ‘Come to me, if you wish to die.’
‘Does that go for all of us, or just him?’
Ahazian risked a glance to his left. The spear-wielder he’d seen before stepped through an archway of gold. The warrior wore an open-faced helmet and a polished cuirass of brass, marked with the rune of Khorne. His scarred, tattooed limbs were bare of armour, but his movements were so quick, Ahazian doubted he required the extra protection. Even so, blood dripped freely down his limbs from numerous wounds. ‘Feel free to join in, if you like,’ Ahazian said. ‘I’ve never had a problem killing strangers.’
‘Too much talking, not enough dying,’ the brute rumbled. He charged towards Ahazian, axe raised. Ahazian braced himself to meet the warrior’s rush, glad at last to face a living opponent. Even if he did smell like an open grave. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of more warriors entering the chamber through the other archways. He had little time to spare for them, however, as his adversary hacked at him. He caught the blade of the axe on the head of his skullhammer. His muscles bulged as he fought to force his larger opponent back. ‘Strong,’ the brute grunted.
‘Only the strong survive,’ Ahazian said.
‘And only the clever prosper,’ the spear-wielder interjected. The wide blade of his impaling spear skidded off the armour under Ahazian’s arm. He caught the weapon just behind the blade and yanked it forward, so that it slammed into the chest of the brute. The hulking warrior staggered back with a curse. Ahazian spun and smashed his skullhammer into the chest of the spear-wielder, knocking him flat.
‘A clever warrior wouldn’t have got so close,’ Ahazian growled, as he raised his weapon. He would crack this fool’s skull and then finish off the other one. However, as he moved to do so, smoke began to rise from the grates in the floor. It flowed upwards so swiftly and thickly that soon Ahazian could see nothing around him. The sounds of battle grew dim, and faded away entirely. Even the floor beneath his feet felt different. He could no longer feel the presence of his opponents. It was as if they had been stolen away by unseen hands. For a moment, curiosity warred with anger.
Then, in the smoke, came a light. A dull, orange glow. Acting on instinct, he moved towards it. The floor trembled beneath him as he moved, and he heard the thunderous creaking of unseen gears. From somewhere, a voice began to speak.
In the beginning, before the Age of Blood, before the realms cracked and the four brothers made war upon one another, there was fire. From fire, came heat. From heat, shape. And shape split into eight. And the eight became as death. Eight Lamentations.
Ahazian stopped. ‘The Eight…’ he whispered. Every warrior marked by Khorne knew the legend of the Eight Lamentations. Eight weapons, given by Khorne as gifts to his brother gods, but then lost. A single Lamentation could shatter armies. All eight together would rend the walls of reality, and cast down all that opposed them. Were these the weapons that had drawn him here? Was this why he had been summoned, to wield one of the Eight? The thought excited him. It was only fitting, was it not?
The smoke swelled, and Ahazian wondered if the chamber were changing shape, somehow. Everything seemed to be moving, drawing him closer to the orange glow. He pressed on, moving as quickly as he dared, without being able to see his surroundings. And through it all, the voice continued its tale.
The Eight were the raw stuff of Chaos, hammered and shaped to a killing edge by the chosen weapon smiths of Khorne. To each of his Forgemasters was given a task — to craft a weapon unlike any other: a weapon fit for a god. Or one as unto a god.
‘I am not a god, but I would gladly slaughter a pantheon for such a weapon,’ Ahazian said. His words were swallowed up by the smoke, without even an echo to mark their passing. With such a weapon in his hand, he would be as war itself.
Then came the Age of Blood and the Eight were lost. But it is said by the Brass Oracles that there will come eight warriors — Godchosen — who will reclaim the Eight for Khorne, and march with them at the head of his armies, at the end of all things…
Abruptly, the smoke billowed and began to disperse, as he was enveloped in a great heat. His boots scraped on rough stone, and he waved a hand to clear his vision. He was in a forge. Larger than any he’d ever seen, but crude. Primitive. It was a cavern, chopped and hewn so as to make room for fire-pits and cooling basins. Racks of weapons decorated the curved walls — hackblades, wrath-hammers, weapons of all shapes and sizes.
And at the heart of the forge, a huge anvil, and the smith himself, standing over it. One big hand clutched a hammer, while the other held something flat on the anvil. The hammer came down once, twice, three times, filling the forge with the sound of metal ringing on metal. The sound sliced at his senses, setting his teeth on edge.
Ahazian recognised the heavily muscled being before him. He’d seen skullgrinders before, though the war-smiths of Khorne were not a common sight. The creature’s armour was blackened and warped, as if he had been at the centre of a lightning strike. When the skull-faced helm turned, Ahazian saw that it was scored and marked in similar fashion.
‘You are of the Ekran.’
The skullgrinder’s voice was like an avalanche. Ahazian hesitated. Then, he said, ‘I am Ahazian Kel.’
‘The last kel.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill the others?’
Ahazian took a tighter grip on his skullhammer. ‘Some. Who are you to ask such questions?’
‘I am he who called you here, Ahazian Kel. I am Volundr of Hesphut. The Skull-Cracker. The Sword-Binder. Do you know my name?’
Ahazian did. ‘It is said, in certain circles, that it was by your hand that the sword Marrowcutter was forged. That you broke a hundred daemons on your anvil, and used their blood to cool the blade of the greatest of the Eight Lamentations.’
A low, guttural laugh slipped from the skullgrinder. ‘Even so, even so. You know who I am, then. But do you know what I am?’
‘The Forgemaster of Aqshy.’
‘Yes. One of eight sworn war-smiths, bound in service to Khorne. Though we are but seven, now. The forges of Azyr are cold, and my brother is gone. Even Khorne cannot find him.’ Volundr lifted what he’d been working on from the anvil. It was an axe — a black goreaxe, chased in gold. ‘This axe once belonged to another, who failed to live up to its promise and my expectations. Thus, I have re-forged it, and made it stronger.’
The skullgrinder turned, the axe licking out. Ahazian jerked back, bringing his skullhammer up to block the blow. His hammer burst as the axe bit into it, and he was knocked backwards. Volundr gave him no time to recover, or even mourn the loss of a faithful weapon. The skullgrinder spun the axe as if it weighed no more than a feather, and chopped at Ahazian’s head. Ahazian ducked aside. He didn’t waste time wondering why the skullgrinder had called him here only to kill him. Such was the skullgrinder’s strength, he had no doubt that a single blow would mean his end. He had to stay out of reach.