Firestorm - The Hrukvorn Lodge III - The Daemon and the Disciple

'This has been a farce from the outset,' spat Folkvar. 'By Grimnir, manling, I am an arse hair away from breaking oath...'

'This was but one battle in a much larger war. Now-'

'Those beasts have control of the Realmway!' roared the runefather. 'Did Sigmar drop you on your head when he sent you to us on that bolt from the blue? The gods only know where they've gone now.'

'We are not the only ones fighting for the Plateau,' replied Brightblade calmly. 'They have the gate for now, yes, but they will not hold it forever. Yes, we have struggled to gain a foothold in the north – the orruks have seen to that. And that is why I suggest we venture south.'

Folkvar breathed in slowly through his nostrils, then puffed out the air in a long, exhasperated sigh as he fought to control his temper.

'So, you want to take the fight to the Chaos filth. What's your grand plan then, Lord-Veritant?'

'The Disciples of Tzeentch have garrisoned the Titanworks,' said Lucius as he pointed a gauntleted finger to a portion of the map spread out across the table within the Stormcast commander's tent. 'They have been bloodied by the Wraith Fleet and are hiding behind their walls, licking their wounds. If we strike at them whilst they are weakened and seize a foothold within the area, we can spread across the region from there. Besides, without the Titanworks it is impossible to reforge the Sceptres of Flame. Without a sceptre, the Prismatikon cannot work.'

Folkvar stroked his moustaches thoughtfully.

'Even if we don't expand, we can force a deadlock...'

Lucious nodded, his pale face grim as ever. 'Precisely.'

'We were beaten badly by that horde. I can spare my guard, and Alsvir and myself can bring the magmadroths. But if we're to do this, we'll need your help.'

'I will gladly lend you my blade,' said Lucius, extending a gauntleted hand to Folkvar. 'If we strike swift and true, the creatures within that fort will not know what hit them.'

Folkvar grasped Lucuis' hand and grinned.

'Let's cook the bastards in their own kiln,' growled Folkvar.

***

Amidst the half-buried ruins of the Titanworks, the followers of the Changer of Ways had erected great, spiked walls and towers. Hellish gargoyles leered down at the Fyreslayers whilst blue witchfires whirled and danced unnaturally on top of the battlements. The air was ever dark in the region that was home to the ancient Titanworks, the atmosphere irreversibly changed by the pollutants that Agloraxi belched forth from the factories now half swallowed by the toxic mires and black sand dunes. But now it was suffused with the telltale shimmering blue that seemed to accompany the shape-shifting magics of Tzeentch's followers.

Folkvar-Grimnir scowled at the hideous Chaos bastion from atop the back of his magmadroth, Brim. The beast itself snorted contemptuously - being no stranger to the followers of the Dark Gods, the smells and signs indicative of their presence were all too familiar to him.

'As if this place wasn't hideous enough as it was...' remarked Alsvir as he pulled up alongside Folkvar on his own mount – another magmadroth by the name of Ulavesht.

'The Brightblade seems to like it,' replied Folkvar.

'I can see why. Suits him perfectly.'

There was a flash of blue from the heavens, causing the hearthguard to brace for attack, then Lucius Brightblade coalesced into being amidst the Hrukvorn Lodge's forces. The fyreslayers eyed him suspiciously, but lowered their poleaxes at a gesture from Folkvar.

'Took you long enough,' sneered the Runefather, giving the Lord-Veritant a sideways glance.

'Shall we begin, my lord?' said the Brightblade, brushing off Folkvar's jibe.

An unnatural shriek tore the air, drawing all eyes to the helfort. From behind the walls from which the gargoyles leered down at the would-be attackers, a great bird-daemon leapt into the air and landed just outside of the walls, its three heads staring directly at the Fyreslayer strike force. No sooner had the beast appeared than a horde of jibbering daemons vomited forth from atop the battlements of the fortress, cackling and capering about the vulture creature. A warhorn then sounded and a contingent of unmistakably human warriors rushed out from the sally ports at the foot of the walls. Their cloaks streamed out behind them as they ran to their positions clutching a variety of vicious weapons. Once the warriors were in position a female warrior, atop one of the otherworldly discs the Disciples of Tzeentch were wont to use, hovered down into position next to the bird-daemon, behind the grat retinue of Chaos warriors.

Folkvar leaned forward in his saddle, squinting to get a better look at the vulture creature standing behind the tribeswomen. In an instant, memories of another life – of another world – came flooding back to him.

'The daemon from the islands...' he hissed.

'Lord Folkvar-Grimnir – did you say something?' asked the Brightblade suspiciously.

'That creature... It is familiar...' replied Folkvar as he searched his memories. 'But it can't be – Karnack the Manipulator was faceless...'

'It is a creature of Change, and subject to the power it belives it harnesses,' intoned the Brightblade. 'It is possible that it is the same beast you remember, but it may also be a trick of the Great Deceiver. Steel yourself, Folkvar-Grimnir. Your duardin look to you.'

Folkvar scowled down at the Lord-Veritant, then kicked his heels into Brim's flanks.

'Prepare to charge!' he bellowed as he rode up and down the duardin lines. 'Prepare to charge!'

Alsvir began to chant, his voice low and sonorous. As he did, his eyes blazed with red fire, and the runes on his arms and legs hummed and shimmered. Ulavesht let loose a fearsome roar, and the hearthguard arrayed about the two great magmadroths slammed the butts of their poleaxes into the ground as they joined in with the Runesmiter's chant. Soon, every rune hamered into the flesh of the duardin burned with the fury of Grimnir's fire.

'KHAZUK!' roared Folkvar as he thrust his grandaxe into the air.

With fearsome cries and the fury of their god rushing through their veins, the fyrd rushed forward. At the fore leading the charge was Folkvar and Alsvir, their mighty steeds belching streams of magma into the daemonic hordes. Several of the horrors shrieked and howled as their physical forms were eaten away by the fire of the magmadroths. Seeing that they risked having their flank collapsed, the woman on the disc barked orders at her mortal warriors and had them about their facing in order to flank the much smaller duardin force in turn. The daemons rained sorcerous fire down upon the approaching hearthguard causing a few of their number to fall as they advanced, but most of the duardin continued to rush forward unscathed.

The rush of the fyrd had further churned the sludge and grim of the Titanworks into a slurry, and some of the Fyreslayer warriors found themselves stuck in the bog. Folkvar continued to bark orders even as Brim struggled to heave himself out of the fire, belching streams of blue magma on any enemy who dared approach.

A retinue of centigors attempted to rush in between the magmadroths to pick off some of the hearthguard, but with several mighty swings of his grandaxe Folkvar bissected several of the creatures whilst Brim gored the others with his immense, black horns.

By now the air was dancing with the sorcerous blue fire of the Manipulator and his disciples. Amidst the firestorm, Lucius Brightblade materialised with a clap of thunder. He bravely thrust his lantern into the air, fighting to abate the fell magics of the enemy. He roared in agony as his body was wracked with sorcerous burns. For several moments he stood defiantly before the daemon cabal, their magicks intensifying and condensing about the lone black-armoured man. But eventually he lowered his lantern, swayed on the spot for a moment then collapsed in a heap, his majestic cloak burned and torn to ribbons.

Once they had freed themselves from the poisonous mire, the duardin crashed into the Tzeentchian flank. Ulavesht shrieked as she set upon the horros, batting their hideous bodies into the air like a cat toying with so many mice as Alsvir cleaved the creatures with axe and stabbed at them with his war iron. Folkvar and Brim rushed at the flamer daemons, a whirlwind of black fyresteel and blue magma. As their daemonic allies were crushed, the tribeswomen charged at the magmadroths at their commander's behest, desperate to keep the duardin away from the keep. But they were no match for the might of Ulavesht, and they were felled in their droves by the fury of the magmadroth.

The plate-armoured Chosen – the largest and most well-armed of the Chaos contingent – charged at Folkvar and Brim. Silently and swiftly they moved, they hacked at Brim's hide with a fury that seemed almost at odds with their otherwordly composure. Several blows connected with Brim's softer underbelly, and he bucked and hissed as magmic blood spilled onto the warriors, burning through armour as though it were parchment. Folkvar brought his axe to bear on his attackers, smashing several of them aside with but a few mighty blows. It was then that Folkvar's hearthguard rushed in with ululating war-cries, their braziers whirling about their flaming crests in a frightening visage, cleaving and burning the remainder of the Chosen until none were left standing.

Eyes widened with horror, the two commanders of the sorcerous host flew far out of range of the weapons of the Fyreslayers. The remaining hearthguard began rushing to the fortress walls were Alsvir was preparing to reduce them to sludge. But before they could claim their victory, the firestorm that had only just abated returned with renewed intensity. Folkvar whirled around to see the two surviving Tzeentchians – the woman on the disc and the vulture daemon – channel all of the last reserves of their magicks into their last spells. The woman pointed from across the battlefield at Folkvar and everything turned white.

Folkvar screamed with rage as he watched his father fall to one knee. A cowardly ratman had sunk his filthy blade between his ribs. The old, raven-haired dwarf slumped for a moment and more of the ratmen closed in. His last surviving hearhguard pulled the king to his feet before a viciously spiked halberd erupted through the warrior's throat.

Folkvar reached for his axe – Dumazril – but his hands were withered and his skin thin like parchment. He stared in horror at the withered, liver-spotted skin, the black gate-shaped rune tattooed on his left hand as dark as ever. He wrapped his hands about the haft of the axe, but he could not lift it. Black ichor seeped from the gate tattoo on his hand and ran down the axe. The ratmen rushed past him and joined their brethren as they set upon the old king.

Folkvar stared up as his father swung his maul about him, puling the heads of several skaven, before he was dragged down by dozens of filthy clawed hands. Folkvar howled as he shambled over to pry the ratmen off of Hroki but he was pulled back. When he looked down, several blue, spindly hands grasped at his cloak, his hauberk and dragged him away. The image of his father being torn apart by the ratmen faded into the distance until all was shadow.

'Never again,' whispered a hundred voices. 'Never again.'

The world burst into blue light and shimmering crystal. Folkvar's old withered hands burst into blue flame. His skin was not consumed by the fire, but he howled in agony as he felt his entire body burn.

'Never again, never again, never again,' continued the whispered chanting.

'Burn forever, burn forever, burn forever,' joined in another chorus.

From the crystal, his brother materialised. He wore the same grey, tattered cloak he always did, his hair and beard loose and unkempt. He reached out to Folkvar.

'D-dont come n-n-near...' stammered Folkvar, his voice cracked and weak. 'Y-y-you'll b-burn t-t-too...'

'Then we'll burn together,' said Ulrik. Only it wasn't his voice.

Folkvar looked up and food himself staring at a tall, aromoured figure that stood were Ulrik had. He had no face and wore a blue hood. He reached out to Folkvar as Ulrik had, his hands thin and bluish like a corpse's.

'Take my hand,' came the voice, sinister and gentle at once. 'I can make the burning stop...'

Folkvar began to reach for the hand, and as he did three monstrous vulture heads slowly began to emerge from the shadowy hood. Just as his hand reached the daemon's, the creature shrieked and Folkvar's agony increased. The blue, crystal world immediately vanished with the daemon, and strong hands grabbed Folkvar and pulled him to his feet.

Staring back at him was a black-hooded duardin with a jet black beard.

'It's a lie!' hissed the duardin as he shook Folkvar. 'It's all in your head! Fight back!'

'Fight back!' roared the duardin, his eyes wide and mad, spraying spittle on Folkvar's face as he bellowed.

Folkvar snapped back to attention. He looked around and saw the dead and wounded duardin, daemons and Chaos warriors scattered about the mire. He saw Alsvir and a handful of the hearthguard struggling against the sorcerous fire of the vulture daemon. They were huddled down behind the fortress wall with Ulavesht, and had been burned badly by the wizard's onslaught. Gritting his teeth, he slid down Brim's flank, still clutching his grandaxe. His body screamed as he landed unevenly, the cuts and burns he had sustained ringing with the botched landing. He rested against Brim's flank for a moment, reassured by the beast's steady breathing.

'Stay here, boy,' he whispered, patting the magmadroth's flank.

He took a moment to steel himself, breathed deeply, then stepped out into the open.

'KARNACK!' he bellowed hoarsely.

The firestorm ceased immediately.

'That's enough!' he cried, leaning on his grandaxe for support.

The vulture daemon's three heads each eyed one another suspiciously. The woman on the disc first looked at Folkvar, then cast her ally a sideways glance.

'I thought it was you...' said the three heads in unison, the voices at once sinister but gentle.

The daemon beat its immense wings and rose into the air, then landed deftly before Folkvar.

'How did Folkvar Hrokisson – the Elfcrusher, the Daemonbane – find his way to the Mortal Realms?' purred the daemon, pointing a taloned finger at Folkvar.

'There are entities with a knack for invading realities they don't belong to – I daresay you've heard of them...'

One of the daemon heads clucked with amusement, whilst one scowled angrily. The others' eyes narrowed suspiciously.

'We had forgotten how amusing you could be,' said Karnack.

'"We"?' said Folkvar. 'You always had an inflated opinion of yourself, didn't you?'

'You still haven't answered our question,' replied the Manipulator impatiently.

Folkvar thought for a moment.

'Pathways work both ways, don't they?' he said.

'Why are you holding negotiations with this... Sigmarite...' hissed the woman as she floated down to hover at Karnack's side.

'He is no Sigmarite, my dear,' came Karnack's rebuttal. 'He is a scion of Grimnir. He seeks balance... order... If all is Chaos, then what is Chaos? There is no light without darkness; no sickness without health. If all is one, it is also nothing. Balance. Contrast. Change. Chaos needs Order as Order needs Chaos. One is nothing without the other...'

The woman's disc lowered further still and she stepped off of it onto the ground, arms folded all the while.

'Clearly you want something from us, duardin,' said the woman haughtily. 'Speak.'

'You will let us collect our dead and our wounded, and you will let us quit the field without fear of reprisal,' said Folkvar flatly.

All three of Karnack's heads cackled. The woman remained impervious.

'Interesting, interesting...' said the vulture daemon.

'And why would we do that?' asked the woman.

'Because as we speak an orruk horde – that has seized control of the Realmway – is rampaging across the Plateau. Now, I'm not a wizard or a soothsayer, or a priest. But I've spent enough time around your kind to know that a horde of mindless idiots running unchecked and unrivalled through civilized lands is a problem.'

'You want us to dispatch the orruks – for you?' said the woman incredulously.

'No, no,' interjected Karnack. 'It's so much more... It seems that Folkvar Hrokisson has spent some time in the Crystal Labyrith. He is strong, yes. But strength alone does not prevail in the realm of the Changer of Ways. It seems that this one has learned to align his goals with those he has nothing in common with.'

Karnack leaned in closer to Folkvar.

'You have changed, Folkvar-Grimnir,' whispered the daemon. 'You have changed in many ways...'

Folkvar eyed the daemon and his mortal ally uneasily.

'We accept your terms,' said the woman. 'Now, leave this place.'

***

 Folkvar limped over to Alsvir and the hearthguard, leaning on his grandaxe all the while.

'Gather the dead and the wounded and prepare to march back to the Sorrowpeaks,' said Folkvar flatly before limping away again.

'What happened?' asked Alsvir. 'What did you say?'

The Runefather stomped over to where the Brightblade lay, the wounded Stormcast's breath coming in heavy rasps. Folkvar reached down with his free hand, wrapped his fingers around the rim of the Brightblade's gorget, and pulled his helmeted face up to meet his own.

'You have led us into defeat after defeat,' hissed Folkvar. 'Enough duardin blood has been spilled on your advice. Go back to Azyrheim – and don't bother coming back.'

Folkvar let the Brightblade go. His body fell to the ground with a clatter, and the warrior wheezed in agony. Folkvar stumped off again in the direction he was headed. There was a flash of lighting that filled the sky, followed by a thunderclap. A heavy rain began to fall, and the Runefather looked back at where the Lord-Veritant had lay. Steam rose from the black mark that indicated where the man had died. Folkvar stared at the mark for a moment – it were as though Lucius' very shadow had been left behind. The fyreslayer shook his head, then continued off where he was headed.