Archaon: Everchosen (Warhammer Fantasy) by Rob Sanders

Author:Rob Sanders [Sanders, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2014-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XII

‘Khaela Mensha Khaine, for hate’s sake, hear our petition – as blood answers the throat slit. Keep the hearts of the druchii cold and bitter, wherein the murderous will of our survivor-civilisation be preserved for all eternity. Bring death, just and swift, to the weak. Daub the revenger’s blade with the blood of enemies old. Watch over the inconstant north. Grant the wild men and their wilderness your darkness. Let blade and bolt bring sacrifice to your altar. Bless the druchii, ever your acolytes and assassins, with murder in your name and victories as certain as spite.’

– Hellebron, the Hag Queen of Har Ganeth,

The Pact of the Pitiless

Eisarnagga Glacier

The Watchlands of Naggaroth

The Soul Harvest – First Blood (Druchii Remembrance)

The will of the Dark Gods took Archaon west. It did not matter that west was the direction the dark templar had chosen for himself – he was the chosen of the Ruinous Gods in all but name and a regular doom would not do for him. While other warriors and chieftains stumbled onwards into their doom, the incomprehension and darkness of the continent interior waiting for them, Archaon was reserved a greater fate. He would not be showered with gifts that ushered others through greatness and on into spawndom because he asked for none. He would not be a simple pleasure. A mind lost. A bloody fate. A soul to be played with. He would not be a pawn moving through a perpetual war or a player in a never-ending round of gladiatorial games. Not even for the gods’ entertainment. Archaon’s will burned bright in the maelstrom and like a gratification denied or a tasty morsel on the plate left for last, his journey would be savoured.

By the time he passed over the Anvil of the Gods, where dark heroes were forged and the mountainous ridges of Damnation’s Teeth and the Arkhang Peaks fought for supremacy of the skies, Archaon commanded a considerable force. With a mighty army made up of champions of the Chaos gods, glory-hungry warriors, amalgamated warbands and tribesmen of the infernal north, Archaon crossed the impossibilities of the Abyssal Plain. He tested the mettle of his men at the great gathering known only as the Wars of Omission – fought between and within the colossal black walls of star-shaped ziggurats that pervaded the land and towered over the blood-soaked earth of the Wastes. His host was nearly burned alive in the deep freeze of the Kankgari Basin before facing the Golden Horde of the savage Chi-An, the Serpent Cults of the Tu-Kara and the fleshless warlords of the marauder Yin.

All Archaon did was give battle to the lesser existences of the world – either as general or blade to bloodied blade – or sleep. He gave his everything to fighting his way across the warping landscape of the Wastes. When you knew not where you were, when you knew not the time of day – let alone the week, month or year – progress was everything.

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