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The Hunter's First Tale


TheHuscarl

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A Warcry Story

 

The sky is different here. It is, perhaps, the most notable aspect of this blighted place, something that immediately sets it apart from all the other realms. It shifts constantly, often like a kaleidoscope of mingled colors, other times just solid red or a sickly orange. Storms come swiftly, rolling in seemingly out of nowhere, bringing rain that may be soft and cool or vicious enough to flense the flesh off a man’s bones. Foul winds blow across this wasteland as well, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, and they carry strange scents. Blood, rot, lust, even betrayal, if that could have an odor. The winds whistle through the rocks, swirling the dust of ages across what always seems to be arid ground. It is inhospitable. It is awful. It is the antithesis of everything that is right and good in this universe and I hate it. And over it all this foulness looms the great Varanspire. 

 

That dark edifice is always visible, no matter which direction you look. Once, you may catch it in the heat-haze, shivering and wavering, another time it may seem so present and close that you can reach out and touch it. The only constant is that it is there. I occasionally wonder just how much the dark master of that forsaken tower knows of what goes on within his chosen demesne. Is he aware of me? Does he sense my presence, the tiny blight of purity in this hellscape? Would he even care? I doubt that he would. The Everchosen’s horrific intellect is all wrapped up in the battles of gods and demi-gods now. What would one who has cloven the skull of the God of Death and driven Sigmar himself from the field care for my intrusion? Still, every once and again, the skin crawls on the back of my neck, and I feel the prickle of distant observation, and I wonder.

I stand on a ridge of volcanic rock, looking down at a plain covered in long, dying grass. The two things seem incongruous, for there is no volcano nearby, nor is there any way such grass really grew and died here, but it matters little. Wind, cold this time, like the chill gusts of northern Ghur, whips around me, snatching at my cloak and causing the grass of the plain to shimmer like a sea. Some would find something strangely beautiful about that, I imagine, but none of it feels clean or natural to me. Chaos seeps through all things here. Indeed, even Sigmar’s vaunted Shadowblades would struggle in this benighted realm, which was why they sent me. It is odd for a Stormcast to operate alone, but not unprecedented. We are, after all, built for brotherhood, even Vanguard hunters such as myself, but they did not send a whole team for this. This is assassin’s work, the task of a lone killer. Plus, why shoot six bolts and risk wasting them all when one will do?

As if on cue, a shriek from above reminds me that I am not wholly alone here. From the sky, a blue figure hurtles downwards before alighting on my outstretched arm. Ahti caws softly at me, chiding me for my negative thoughts, and preens her lustrous plumage. Here, where I cannot see the stars, I appreciate the presence of my aetherwing companion, if only for the reminder of the Azyr she poses. Of course, she’s as reliable of a combatant and partner as you’re liable to find, and, truth be told, I’d trust her before I trust a fair few of my Stormcast brothers. Not that I would ever tell them that.

Ahti squawks as I begin to stride down the hill towards the plain, encouraging me onwards before lifting off into the air once again with a final shriek. I smile beneath my mask. She is a majestic creature, cutting through the foul sky like a bolt of blue lightning. She senses the presence of a trail, much like I do, and is eager. 

 

It’s funny, in a way. In my life before… before my apotheosis, let us say, I believe I hated birds. I was not a friend of nature either, from what I can recall. Nor was I a hunter. In half glimpses and shattered memories, I sometimes think that my hatred stemmed from envy, from the desire for freedom. I was a prisoner, of one kind or another, a gilded bird trapped in a gilded cage. Maybe that was why Sigmar saw fit to bring me back as part of his Vanguard, for I am a hunter now, that much is sure, and I revel in it. Of course, the God-King knows just how well I have taken to that role, that’s why he sent me here. Even if I were not one of his devoted, I would say that it’s hard to criticize his judgment.

For the last three weeks, at least as far as I can tell from how time travels here, I have been on the trail of Rusa Veel, Shadow Piercer of the Corvus Cabal. The Corvus Cabal, for those of you blessedly uninitiated in the ways of the Dark Gods and their myriad servants, are a mysterious murder cult famed for their ability to assassinate targets across the realms. Their organization is large and the reach of their talons is long. Many among the Order of the Azyr and my own Stormcasts would love nothing more than to find their vile citadel hidden in the swirling mists of Urdu and raze it to the ground, but so far it has proven elusive to all that hunt it. Individual members and warbands, however, are easier to find, especially here in the Eight Points. For whatever reason, Sigmar wants one of those particular individuals, Rusa Veel, dead. Whether prognosticators have seen some dark destiny that she will play a part in or there is some demonic patron that has taken notice of her talents, I do not know. In truth, I don’t rightly care. I have been placed on Veel’s trail, and her death is merely a matter of time.

I will admit that, despite my own skills, this particular Cabal warband has been hard to follow. They move with consummate stealth and leave little trace of their passing, as one would expect from murderers famed for their ambushes and sudden strikes. Of course, the Eight Points don’t lend themselves well to tracking anything, for reasons that should be apparent to any sane individual, but fortune has finally favored me. In front of me lies the detritus of a battle. More accurately, a skirmish. Between a crofter’s cottage that would not look out of place in the wilderness of Ghyran and the rusted remains of an iron guard tower bearing the architectural hallmarks of some ancient civilization in Chamon lie a smattering of corpses. Many are beastkin, the mutated children of Chaos that plague this land, but a fair few wear the dark, scruffy leather armor and tattered robes of Cabalites, all bearing the black dagger tattoo of Rusa Veel on their pale faces. Ahti alights upon the top of the crofter’s cottage and squawks. I nod in agreement. 

 

The battle had not gone well for the Cabal. Though there are less cultist corpses among the dead, it is clear that they fought a desperate action, coalescing around the watchtower before breaking over the nearby hills. Maybe an ambush gone wrong? It is hard to tell, but I suspect that is the case. I check each Cabalite body in turn, flipping over corpses and kicking slaughtered beastkin aside, but none of them are Veel herself. I sigh in relief. The honor of that particular kill is mine and mine alone. 

 

The next body I turn onto its front is that of Cul, a so-called Shrike Talon, a master killer who also happens to be Veel’s right hand man and chief enforcer. His spiked stilts, meant to imitate the legs of a bird, are still attached to him, though one is snapped in half. A beastman’s axe has rent Cul’s chest wide open. Losing him is a major blow to Veel’s power. Alongside the other losses, Cul’s vacant eyes staring from behind his bird-faced mask speak to nothing less than a significant defeat. His leader will be desperate now, desperate to consolidate power and desperate to lick her wounds and rebuild what she can.

Ahti caws in alarm and the rumbling growl of a beast brings me up short. I look up and realize I am not the only scavenger among the dead.

A razortryx is like some sort of cross between a Ghuran jungle cat and a vulture that has then spent hundreds of years marinating in the harsh glow of Chaos. Its fleshy crest flaps and wobbles at me and it snaps its vicious beak angrily between growls. Large black wings flap briefly, stirring the dust off the ground, and it rears up on its legs and attempts to make itself look bigger than it really is. I have killed a few razortryx since my arrival in the Eight Points and I have no particular desire to tangle with one again if I can avoid it. I bring my stormbolt pistol up, clacking the firing mechanism loudly. 

 

We stand silently for a moment, sizing one another up. Ahti, thankfully, does nothing. My grip on the pistol tightens as I slide my other hand down towards the axe at my waist, but still neither the creature or I move. After another few heartbeats, the razortryx drops down and slinks off around the edge of the tower. I lower my weapon and ease the tension out of my form. The beast is a creature of Chaos and I do hate it. But I have a bigger beast clad in feathers to hunt, as it were. Ashti squawks and flaps down to my shoulder, but I ignore her disdainful commentary. A hunter knows when to strike and when to move on. The leftovers of this battlefield have provided me with a breakthrough and I mean to follow that, rather than brawling with vermin.
 

Last week, Veel and her warband found an abandoned set of canyons about a day’s march from where I currently stand. In the midst of that tangle, they hid supplies and weapons. I know this because I watched them do so. It was the first time they had stopped shifting around since I picked up their scent, but it was no camp. They operate in the area, roaming nomadically, and their cache in the canyons was clearly meant as a fallback point, a refuge should things turn out poorly, as they have now. It is a not uncommon tactic among Vanguard warbands to distribute similar supply pools in the wake of their movements and I recognized the plan immediately. The fact that the Cabal hid its supplies well and left no guards further cemented the conclusion in my mind. I knew how to make my way back to that maze of shallow canyons, but in the terrain of the Eight Points, nothing is ever certain. Nonetheless, I set out. Veel is cornered and I am eager to finish this.

 

Two days of marching, though I know it only took me one day the first time, from the battle site leads me back to the canyonlands. A darkness has fallen over the Eight Points as I slink towards the location of the cache, and though there are no stars in the sky outside the foul green orb of the Chaos moon, I am thankful nonetheless for the added benefit to my stealthy approach. Though my prey hearkens from the Urdu and doubtless possess the capability to see through the shadows of the night, I am certain I see far better than them. As I stalk along the rims of the canyons, I sight the monolithic form of the Varanspire in the distance, glowing with unholy energy even in what passes for night here. Another glow, closer at hand, draws my true attention though. The Cabal have made a mistake and lit a fire. Another sign Veel is slipping. Two weeks ago, such a decision would’ve been an anathema to the stealthy assassin, but here, in this place where she apparently feels comfortable, she has given in to the temptation of warmth. 

 

I see the first sentry long before he would take notice of me. More accurately, I smell him. I have forgone my helm this night, preferring instead to hide my features behind dirt and dust, and there is nothing to inhibit my full senses. The Cabalite smells of damp leather and polluted blood, with the faintest taint of cloying, musty fog still clinging to his frame. I see his form perched above the glow of the campfire on the canyon’s rim, sitting swathed in shadows like some reclusive vulture. He has made a mistake to mirror that of his mistress. His back is to the darkness, his face towards the fire. It is the kind of foolishness that would earn a sentry in the Freeguilds a lashing or two. It will earn this Cabalite his death. 

 

Using the moaning of the wind to cover any sounds my soft movements might make, I slide up behind the unsuspecting killer. I reach a gauntleted hand around his face, smothering his mouth and lifting him up slightly. My other hand punches, fingers extended like a blade, up underneath the back of the man’s rib cage and straight into his heart. The Cabalite convulses once before I withdraw my hand and lower him to the ground. It is a bloody, messy kill, but that is exactly what I want. With no hesitation, I daub the man’s blood on my face, streak it across my other gauntlet and wipe it on my chestplate. While the Corvus Cabal may be a darkling murder cult, but they are not immune to shock and even horror. That is what I intend to deliver.

The dead Cabalite at my feet appears to be the only sentry. Another mistake. Desperate animals are often forgetful of details, and looking down at the ragged remnants of Veel’s once proud warband, I can see that she is desperate indeed. Only a handful of Cabalites and none of her veterans remain in attendance. The target herself is huddled up in robes near the fire, the totem she wears as a personal standard drooping low over her head. I smile, savoring the cool wind that blows across the top of the canyons, the firm grip of my boltstorm pistol, the weight of the axe at my hip. For a moment, I wish I was not in the Eight Points, so that I could at least admire a view that was not Archaon’s monument to his own vanity, but I push the thought from my mind. I am the aetherwing. I have found my prey and now I must strike. Without a sound, I hurl myself off the rim and into the canyon below.

The first victim, wounded and sitting with his back against the wall, dies under the weight of my armored form as I thunder down on top of him. Gore spatters across the campsite, some of it landing with a sizzling hiss in the fire, and the members of the Corvus Cabal look at me for a moment in stunned silence. Covered in blood, wearing the blue and white armor of the Tempest Lords, one of Sigmar’s avenging Stormhosts, I am undoubtedly the most surprising thing they have seen since they arrived in the Eight Points, which is truly saying something. To their credit, their stunned silence only lasts for a second, before Veel screeches and the remaining Cabalites charge at me, their vicious warpicks held high.


The first two to close fall easily, each taking a stormbolt in the face, and I use my free hand to slap aside the blow of the next attacker with contemptuous ease before shooting him point-blank in his wiry gut. A fourth Cabalite drops as I piston my fist into her face, shattering bone and cracking cartilage in a gory explosion of violence. Four dead warriors and I have not even drawn my axe yet. Veel herself has fallen back and is shrieking unintelligibly into the darkness, even as more of her cultists head towards me from their resting places around the bonfire. My pistol cracks again and another Cabalite falls with a smoking hole in their chest. I begin to laugh, a harsh, predatory sound.

The next blow catches me out of nowhere. 

 

I once had the misfortune of receiving a strike from Retributor-Prime Wolan’s lightning hammer directly to my chest. This hit is actually worse than that particular experience. For a brief moment, the entirety of my armor clad form is lifted off the ground and I am flying before slamming hard into the canyon wall. Sigmarite cracks and I can sense some ribs snap from the shock of the impact. Indeed, it feels as though my whole skeleton is rattled from the blow. My vision is blurred and I taste blood in my mouth from where a tooth was knocked loose. I rise painfully, but immediately, to my feet as something roars loudly at me from across the fire. I realize then that I’ve forgotten a basic tenet of any hunting expedition. A cornered animal is always the most dangerous type of game. 

 

The Fomoroid roars at me again and I can smell the foetid stink of its breath from here. Clad in crude, half-armor made of rudimentary iron plates, the vaguely humanoid monstrosity stands almost twice as tall as I do, built like an ogor but even bulkier, if you can imagine that. Its one beady red eye stares at me, full of bestial hate, and it pounds a meaty fists into its chest as an apelike challenge. In all honesty, it is the last thing I expected to see in the company of a warband dedicated to stealth and skill, but desperate times… I was foolish not to check the side canyons, where it must have been sleeping in the darkness. For a moment, I am almost tempted to laugh at the irony of the shadowy killers hiring one of the biggest, loudest beasts in the Eight Points to serve as added muscle, but laughing would undoubtedly hurt, so I resist. Instead, I roar back, ignoring the pain in my body, and unsling my axe from my waist. It is a simple, heavy thing, made for butchery, and I am glad for its presence now. Somehow, I retained the hold on my boltstorm pistol, so I heft that as well and prepare to charge. 

 

The Cabalites, Veel included, have all backed off to the shadows, ready to let their newest member crush me into dirt. They are sorely mistaken if they think that will happen. I have been reforged twice and I do not care to repeat that process a third time. With another bellowing roar, the Fomoroid lumbers towards me, coming on like an avalanche in the mountains of Ghur. I scream my own warcry and charge to meet it, axe raised, sinking stormbolts into its chest to little effect. Another hit like that last one and I doubt I will be rising up again.

Even as the beast and I close, a shriek pierces the air. Remember, I am never alone, not even here. Ahti descends like a stormbolt in her own right, her talons raking at the Fomoroid’s cyclopean eye, her wings buffeting its bulky head. It grunts in anger, pawing at the aetherwing, and its grunt rises into a howl of pain as Ahti’s talons strike true and dig into its eye. The distraction is all I need. Up close now, I carve my axe into the monster’s side like a climbing pick, and haul myself up onto its back. It roars and lashes about, knocking Ahti aside and eliciting  a pained squawk, but I slam my axe into its back and will not be dislodged. With a grunt, I jam my pistol up to the back of its skull and fire once, twice, thrice. Each stormbolt gives a meaty thunk as it drives deep into the creature’s brain cavity. The Fomoroid grabs onto me, finally ripping me off its back, and hurls me across the campsite. Once more I am flying, but it is the last act of a dead beast. Even as I slam into the canyon wall again I hear it collapse with a pained grunt and a monumental thud. Yet again, sigmarite cracks, and I feel a throbbing pain in my head where it impacted against the rocks.

This time, the remaining Cabalites are on me in a flash. The loss of the Fomoroid has driven new desperate energy into their limbs, and they come at me like a pack of rats attacking a terrier. I lash out with a kick as I rise, pulverizing the leg of the nearest enemy, who immediately goes down in a wailing heap. The next cultist leaps onto my chest as I struggle upwards, trying to jam a dagger into my eye. I headbutt him in the chest and feel his ribcage crumble as he drops away. Another enemy manages to drop towards me from above. Perhaps he clambered up the canyon wall to get above me, I do not know. My axe, still in my hand, catches him in midair, and I use the momentum to swing him bodily into another Cabalite, both of them hurtling into the fire and scattering it across the camp. They scream as they burn, desperately trying to extinguish the flames that begin to engulf them and thus they spread the fire further. 

 

In the whirling mess of leaping shadows that result, Veel finally comes for me, her warpick held low. Her first strike catches me unaware, ripping up into my warplate from below. It would almost certainly have pierced a normal man’s heart, but I am not that. I feel pain flare up inside my gut, but I shrug it off. My axe comes down, knocking Veel’s blade away, and my reverse stroke is perfectly aimed to rip out her lungs. She fades into a mist of shadows, leaving my blade passing through nothingness, and coalesces again to my left. A clever trick. I catch her next strike on the haft of my axe, even as one of the few remaining Cabalites jams a dagger into my back. I cry out, more in annoyance than pain, but before I need to turn, Ahti is there again, and the cultist screams as the aetherwing's talons shred the meat of his face to the bone. 

 

Once more, Veel lands a vicious hit that stabs through my plate, but I am undeterred. We exchange a series of rapid strikes and deflections. The Shadow-Piercer does an admirable job of keeping pace with one of the God-King’s chosen, but it is a short-lived affair. After a particularly vicious parry, I land a blow that would take the head off the most bull-necked of Duardin. I am not shocked when she disappears into a fog again and reappears a few seconds later, once more to my left. I smile and spit blood as she comes at me, screaming in rage, warpick held high like a hawk’s beak, ready to slam down onto my head. Once more, our weapons clash, but even as I catch her blade on the haft of my axe and shove it backwards, I continue to smile. Chaos, despite its name, can be surprisingly predictable. My blade chops low, another killing blow, and Veel avoids it again, whatever dark magic she has protected herself with allowing her to escape another death.

This time however, when she coalesces to my left, she finds the barrel of my boltstorm pistol leveled point-blank at her face.

“Azyrite bitc-!” is all she has time to shriek before the pistol roars and her face explodes. Headless, she topples backwards into the dirt. No saving shadows this time. As I surmised, the enchantment had a short delay before it became active again.

I chuckle though it hurts, mostly at my own cleverness, and turn to survey the carnage around me. The dead Formoroid’s carcass looms over a plethora of shattered Cabalite corpses. Some of their tattered robes have started to catch alight from the embers of the scattered bonfire. The smell is less than pleasant. None appear to be left standing. 

 

Sigmar’s will be done. 

 

I crack another stormbolt into the headless corpse of Veel, just to be sure, and whistle for Ahti. She comes to me, apparently no worse the wear for the smack the Formoroid gave her, and alights on my shoulder plate. She lets out what may be a soft chuff of approval, surveying the carnage with me, and the two of us slink back into the shadows of the canyon. Blood and fire have a way of attracting attention in the Eight Points, and in my current state, I don’t feel like tangling with whatever comes to investigate this carnage.

A day later and I am resting my wounds in the ruins of what was once a hut made from the hollowed out shell of some large beast of Ghur. Another lost object, washed up in the wasteland. I almost know the feeling. My wounds are already starting to heal, though it is a slow process here. Ahti sleeps, perched on a shelf in the ruins, though I know she would awake in an instant should I need her. I reach into my satchel and withdraw a small, leather wrapped container. Inside are three needles made of Sigmarite, each held in a small loop. All are infused with impressive magical powers focused on divination and prognostication, and two of them still glow with faint light. The third, resting in a loop labeled Rusa Veel, lies inert. I reach for the next one and draw it out, placing it into a specially made compass that sits at my waist. The needle begins to spin frantically, before finally settling on a direction. It will lead me close to my next target. I close my eyes for a moment and exhale. I think of Azyr, and for the first time in three weeks, I miss the halls of the Stormhosts and the comforting scents and sights of Azyrheim and its peaceful forests. Most of all, I miss the stars. But then, I think of a gilded bird trapped in a gilded cage, and I smile. It may be the Eight Points, with all that entails, but I am a hunter and I am free and I will hunt. Sigmar be praised, I will hunt.

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