[Narrative] The Vadinax Crusade, III | Curses and Sight

INT. War Room, Harvester of Sorrow

“Your worthless, half-witted zombie nearly got us killed! That’s what went wrong!“

Dol Mezar paused, taking a breath. The assembled champions – the best of the rest of the Sixty-Fourth of the Eighth, and the captains of the corsair ships, or their delegates – held theirs. Stillness and cold; the teeth of his axe grazed the grating of the deck as it swayed, loose in his hand.

“Your recount, champion,” said the occupant of the throne. “Lest I crack your skull and extract it from your living brain.”

“We made planetfall, per the design. Landed the ‘hawks in the desert and made our way south. The Sororitas awaited us. Faith Lost lost their nerve; they sent the Blood of Heaven helots forward in their stead. Tar Zahaan was struck; krak barrage. Their penitents threw themselves on our blades; they broke the Pinion, and we broke them.”

“I know not ‘we’,” chuckled Balthus, the One who Loves Hate. “You stumbled. I thought their mistress had had you – “

“My bloody armour failed! Dust in my power pack, or something. Maybe she hit the vent…”

A grumble of laughter, jeers, murmurs; the war room was turning against him.

“I saw your ‘champion,’” he sneered to the throne. “Flailing his way through women in rags. They ran rings around him. By the time he’d cut them down, the Talon were in flight. They broke the line but they couldn’t take the head. We were repulsed.”

“You had the job of handling him. You could have – “

“I am not done, wizard,” Dol Mezar barked. “Your precious cult? Those who were set to rise up and throw open the gates? They were compromised by xenos! The reinforcements we were promised attacked us! And that – excuse for an abomination you made us call a warlord? It lagged behind and it was the first to fall!”

Eyes turned to the hulking form of Skallagrim; the face twitching in repose; the scar across the bridge of the nose, the livid whites of empty eyes boiled in their sockets.

“Two weeks, lost in the warp navigating from that rock where you had us brief the other warlords. Days more given up to medicae treatments, armour retooling. Half of Faith Lost still drooling from demolition blasts. And what of the Beloved Hate? Why were your blades so still? I know you’re losing trust in this endeavour, Balthus. Speak your piece!”

Balthus, unhelmed, made no secret of the flickering in his gaze. Dol Mezar, barely containing his fury. Skallagrim, aloof and silent, face turned this way and that, unseeing. And, beside the command throne, Mercutio the warlock, the navigator, daemon whisperer and guiding star of this endeavour. Face, to face, to face. All averted their eyes from the command throne, and its occupant.

“I am taking the weapon,” said Dol Mezar, finally. “I am taking the weapon from this fraud you call ‘Skallagrim’ – “

“There is no Skallagrim!”

The voice roared from an empty throat; the empty throat of a blind corpse, with a daemon in its hands.

“There is no Skallagrim! Only Zaal!”

The hammer rose, jerkily; swung, blindly; met Dol Mezar’s chainaxe as he tugged it from the deck – or tried to. Its teeth were snagged, the metals kissed and snarled, and Dol Mezar stumbled. He would have perished, had the occupant of the throne not risen, sweeping a blade into the arc of the hammer as it fell.

Mercurio held out his hands, intoning a rite of containment in a language not meant for human tongues, and Skallagrim-Zaal settled, rattling and foaming in its borrowed throat. Their master twisted his blade, and the hammer’s head turned and disengaged.

“I won’t let you,” growled the mantled figure, the lord and master of this ragged crew. “I won’t let either of you ruin this. The Blood God is assuredly watching. The Red Angel has made his move. Already our Talons dream of blood. Of the wound in the galaxy ripped wide. You will go back to the surface, Dol Mezar, and you will deliver this carcass to the very gates of Steadfast Repentance. And you, Mercurio. You will join him. Skallagrim has become… unstable. If you can’t bring about his ascension, you will ensure his destruction.”

 INT. Harvester of Sorrows, aft starboard armoury chamber

“What was that all about? You were supposed to step up and support me. All of you were! I know you don’t agree with putting that creature in command of the liberation – with courting the Blood God!”

Balthus lounged in the doorway, insofar as it was possible to lounge in full power armour. He’d expected a scene. Hell, he’d expected a challenge. But he’d expected Dol Mezar to finish repairing his axe first. Instead, here he was, labouring with tooth and link, unarmoured fingers picking, plucking. Around the chamber, the others who Loved their Hate watched, and worked. A handful of serfs tended to the machining of their war-plate – those whose war-plate could be removed at all.

“I… made alternative arrangements, brother. That’s all.”

“Blather. Do me the courtesy of plain speech, Balthus. If not my patronage, whose? Has the Warlock offered you something?”

“You don’t even dream with ambition, do you? It’s all about the warband, for you. Never anything beyond this ship, this fleet. No sense for anything but the material.” Balthus stalked into the room, resting his gauntlets on the workbench. The impact jostled the teeth of Dol Mezar’s disassembled axe, and the champion looked up with narrow eyes.

“Answer the question. And stop looming. I am not some helot who cowers in your mere presence.”

“I agree with you, old friend. The Blood God’s path will lead us to destruction. Skallagrim is nothing but a carcass that walks by daemonology. But I do not challenge from a position of weakness, like you. I have heard the Dark Prince’s call. I intend to play the Game, Dol Mezar. And I intend to win.”

“You intend to trade one master for another, and commend yourself on shaking off your chains. Idiot.”

“Better that than to be humiliated like you. Alone and disregarded and impotent. Tell me honestly, Dol Mezar, haven’t you ever been tempted? Don’t you see how much stronger you could be? “

“Tell me something, Balthus. Do all your brothers stand with you?”

Balthus’ eyes flickered. Side to side. Face to face. And sure enough, they were there. Zar Adan, and Zagor; suits forged and trimmed identically. Xanth, ungloved and unhelmed, staring coldly. And Vynn Darr, claws flexing, claws armed, stepping forward with the lightning flaring –

Balthus’ eyes rolled in their sockets, and his head rolled to the edge of the workbench and fell in a stink of cauterised blood and hot metal.

“Does that answer your question, champion?”