Firestorm - The Hrukvorn Lodge IV - Sacrifice

The stink of sorcery hung heavy in the air as the Hrukvorn Lodge trudged bravely on through the howling winds.

Though the Brightblade was gone, his scouts remained in the northern reaches of the Flamescar Plateau, and it was from them that Folkvar-Grimnir had learned of the presence of the vampire corsair's minions in the Sorrowpeaks. That they had chosen this place to create a foothold was unsurprising, saturated as the place was in death - or so Runesmiter Alsvir informed him. What troubled him were the reports of a captive duardin - a large and cantankerous Fyreslayer.

The shadows of Ahramentia lay all around, jutting forth from the snow like desecrated graves. An icy wind whipped the snow into vicious flurries, stinging the exposed skin of the Fyreslayers. Suddenly, Alsvir - who marched at the head of the column astride his magmadroth - halted the column.

'What is it?' shouted the Runefather.

Alsvir waved a hand, gesturing for silence, then motioned to his ear.

Folkvar strained to hear it, but intermingled with the howling of the winds was the sound of a woman crying.

Folkvar heaved his grandaxe up up out of its holster into a two-handed grip.

'Be on your guard!' barked the Runefather to his warriors. 'This place is ripe with dark magics - I sense some sorcerous trick afoot...'

***

The Hrukvorn Lodge continued their march, following the sounds of the woman crying, until they reached a clearing nestled amidst the mountains. The snowfall gradually lessened until it had all but halted, speeding up the progress of the expedition. Judging by the multitude of ruins scattered throughout the area, the clearing had once been home to small settlement long since abandoned.

'Do you feel that?' Alsvir asked Folkvar as he moved down the column and fell in beside the Runefather.

'I do,' replied Folkvar. 'The vampire's underlings are here, and they bring that dead grave air with them.'

'The prisoner - do you think it's the Zangrom?'

'Only he would be stubborn and greedy enough to march out here against my orders,' grumbled Folkvar. 'It's him - or it's some other lodge's Grimwrath.'

The woman's crying intensified into heavy sobs as the Fyreslayers descended down into the clearing. Brim - Folkvar's magmadroth - gave a low, uneasy growl.

'Easy, lad,' said Folkvar, giving the beast a reassuring pat on the flank.

'Runfather! The altar!' cried one of the hearthguard suddenly.

Up ahead - in what appeared to have been some manner of forum or town square at one time - lay a weather worn stone plinth of sorts, surrounded by crude standing stones. Upon it lay a thickly-muscled duardin, his skin studded with golden runes. He appeared to be unconscious, his head resting upon the lap of a woman in a flowing white gown. She looked down into the face of the duardin, her shoulders shaking up and down as though she were crying, though her long-dark face covered her hair, making hard to know for sure.

'Do not approach her,' growled Folkvar to the other Fyreslayers.

The top of his left hand began to itch badly and felt hot. The sight of the crying woman suddenly irritated him, her sobbing intensifying as his anger did.

'Step away from him, witch!' snarled Folkavr suddenly, straining to keep his anger in check.

The woman's head suddenly snapped up and looked straight at Folkvar. Her face was pale and emaciated and her large eyes glowed like two full moons amidst the blackness of her lank, dark hair. She stopped crying and opened her mouth to speak. Her jaw distended unnaturally and a stomach-churning, ear-splitting scream reverberated throughout the ruins, eliciting cries of outrage and anguish from the Fyreslayers. She pulled a curved dagger from beneath her skirts, thrust it high into the air then - clasping the weapon in both hands with blade pointed down - thrust it down at the unconscious duardin's chest. The blade came down hard, but bounced harmlessly off of a golden rune, knocking the shrieking woman backwards.

The banshee rose up into the air. As she did, the Fyreslayers had begun to form ranks and were preparing to rush the unholy apparition. The Wailing Widow let loose a howl of rage and across the empty square other malicious spirits began to materialise, rushing forward to meet the Hrukvorn Lodge.

'She's using blood magic to 'waken the dead!' bellowed Runesmiter Alsvir to Folkvar.

'You're the priest here - banish her or something!' roared Folkvar in reply. 'Let's have at these ugly bastards, lads! Send them screaming back to Nagash!'

Folkvar-Grimnir rushed forward at the head of the column, Brim - his magmadroth - roaring defiantly at the unquiet dead. Hosts of evil spirits leaped up from the earth to halt the advancing duardin, and the battle was joined in earnest.

The Hearthguard whirled their poleaxes about, setting skeletons and ghosts alike ablaze with consecrated flame. The runes of Folkvar's axe blazed brightly as he whirled the massive weapon about, cleaving the bonds tethering the enslaved dead to the world of the living and sending them soaring back to Shyish. No sooner had the spectral hosts been banished when more still of the deceased denizens of the mountain were sent howling into battle with the duardin.

A guttural growl filled Folkvar's ears and he felt a shiver pass through his body. He felt a shadow cast over him and slowly turned to be confronted by what appeared to by the floating torso of an emaciated giant. It's eyes glowed with a sickly yellow malignancy, and its massive jaws were permanently set agape to reveal row upon row of spiked teeth.

Folkvar's eyes widened as the beast brought its long, spindly arms over its head. he quickly brought his axe up to block the flurry of blows but was quickly knocked flying from his saddle. He landed with a crash in the snow and was clumsily helped to his feet by one of Alsvir's guard. Still dazed, he looked over to the stone circle where the banshee was carrying out her ritual and saw her draw the blade down the length of the Zangrom's forearm.

'The banshee...' slurred Folkvar weakly.

The pike-wielding duardin looked at his wounded commander helplessly.

***

Runesmiter Alsvir seethed with rage as he saw Folkvar thrown from his saddle. He strained to see past the Mourngul as it hurled itself at Brim, the magmadroth hissing and lashing his tail at the unnatural horror. He saw the banshee, duardin blood dripping from her ritual knife and his knuckles turned white as he gripped his war iron and latch axe in each hand.

'Forward!' roared the Runesmiter, thrusting his weapons high into the air.

His magmadroth bellowed angrily, then entered into a sprint, surging across the battlefield at lightning pace, deftly avoiding the various undead monstrosities that dotted the square. As rider and mount approached the ritual site, the banshee looked up from his victim in time to see the fiery beast descend upon her. The banshee writhed and shrieked and clawed at the earth, but was helplessly trapped beneath Ulavesht's black claws.

Runesmiter Alsvir leaned over to stare down at the unquiet spirit. His eyes blazed with red fire behind the metal mask he wore, and the runes embedded in his skin shone as though ready to burst.

'You are a taint to be burned away, witch!' growled the priest.

Alsvir closed his eyes and extended his weapons out by his side as rider and beast were joined as Grimnir and Vulcatrix were all those years ago. In a flurry of blows from Ulavesht the banshee was torn into shreds that individually dissipated into the ether.

And with her, the ghosts of Sorrowpeak vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.