The following story was written by Killer Angel over on Lustria Online for that esteemed website’s 40th writing competition (all entries of which are worth reading, for each of their own well-crafted reasons).
Mayhap some maverick Daemonsmith will gain some mad modelling ideas out of reading this?
Enjoy!
LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON
The precision awl chiseled away the surface of the cold iron. Slowly, methodically.
Sweat stung Drazhoath Blakhorn’s eyes, and his arms ached. It didn’t matter.
The chisel fashioned the intricate rune of the “Holder of Treasures,” the thirty-seventh of the sixty-six names of the Father of Darkness. The next rune would bear the name of “He who kills with fire” A series of sixty-six runes, repeated sixty-six times… Drazhoath was now working on the bands that would surround the enormous breastplate, a five-meter-wide plate of steel, heated in lava, quenched in blood and tempered by sacred fires, beaten and shaped into the image of the Bull of Hashut.
With a few final, gentle strokes of the chisel, the Daemonsmith completed the rune, blowing on it to remove the metal dust from the grooves. He then took out his ritual dagger and made an incision in his thumb.
“My blood is not only mine, my blood belongs to Hashut, the One who owns everything and gives nothing away”
Drazhoath placed his thumb on the rune. The metal drank the drops of blood greedily, while the rune glowed.
“Keep this blood, and never release it. Be greedy as our Lord, I am You and You are me.”
The chaos dwarf watched his work with satisfaction, as the regenerative spells activated to close the superficial wound. He still had much to do, but his concentration was broken by the sound of the main door opening.
Before Drazhoath could see him, he heard him. He heard the clatter of metal on stone, the chugging of pistons, and the hum of well-oiled mechanisms. Even his two most trusted K’daai Fireborn dimmed the glow of their flames and stood back in deference and respect.
High above the balcony loomed the towering figure of Ghazkorr, the supreme Sorcerer-Prophet, lord of the city of Zhar-Marduk.
Like a centaur, Ghazkorr’s torso rose above the massive body of a mechanical bull, which enclosed the sorcerer’s legs and pelvis. Like them all, a victim of the corruption of chaos magic, Ghazkorr’s legs and manhood had long since turned to stone. Drazhoath wondered if, beneath the rich and elegant robes, the stone had already reached past his navel, or higher.
It certainly hadn’t reached his arms yet, nor his face, where two fierce eyes shone. Eyes that looked with displeasure at Drazhoath’s work, the chaos of the forge-workshop where disorder had been deliberately created and very little of the actual work was visible.
The eyes rested on Drazhoath again.
“When will it be finished?”
“When I will have completed it.”
Ghazkorr’s gloved fist crashed into the stone parapet.
“Be very careful, boy. Being my firstborn won’t save you from the punishment for negligence, and it certainly doesn’t give you the luxury of insolence. How long did it take for your tongue to grow back last time? Two months? Give me an answer.”
“I… I’m afraid I’ve gone into too much details. But I’m making up for lost time.”
“Hurry up, I need this Destroyer. I’ll give you another week… or you’ll find out the price of my disappointment.”
Ghazgorr left, creaking and dissatisfied. Drazhoath could hear the typical crack of the broken bone, as his father’s scepter struck the skull of one of the hobgoblin servants who ceremoniously was holding the gate open for him.
“I don’t have much time left. In a week, whether I like it or not, my father will realize my deception.”
Drazhoath took a deep swig of the alchemical liquor hanging from his belt. A renewed energy spread through his body, the tiredness vanished in a few seconds.
“another night of work…”.
Three further days of non-stop work had yielded their results. Despite the unavoidable deadline, Drazhoath had still been methodical. No step was to be skipped, haste was not to detract from beauty. His work could not be less than perfection.
A new load of finished pieces was taken and carried toward the inner furnaces. The hobgoblin slaves pushing the carts were not stupid… they had eyes and ears, and they knew full well that Drazhoath was building something far beyond the orders of the sorcerer-prophet.
But Drazhoath had not needed to threaten them. They were aware that betraying him would mean a horrible death for them… his father was not the type to forgive a slave who goes behind his Sorcerer’s back, even if he brought useful news: the only place for an unreliable slave is the furnace.
The internal foundry was an immense room, heated to the limit of bearability by the pools of boiling lava and filled by the dark, reddish light of the enormous votive braziers; hanging from the metal frames towered an enormous metal structure, shaped like a sort of armor divided into pieces, to be assembled around something gigantic.
Each piece was engraved with sacred scenes… one greave showed a volcano with streams of lava spreading out to devour a village. The other greave depicted a lammasu flying between snow-capped peaks. A pauldron showed the Father of Darkness seated on a throne, atop a mountain of gold and precious objects. Each carving was surrounded by sacred runes that pulsed with silent power.
Drazhoath had been to the temples of Zharr-Naggrund, had seen the works of art erected in honor of Hashut, and knew that his work could be displayed in the central temple. It was just a matter of assembling the latest pieces as they were produced, and of course hoping that the couriers who had brought news of the main piece were right, and that it would arrive in time…
Another two days had passed, when the Overseer finally entered the forge.
“My Lord, Skaven envoys have arrived at the underground passages. I have made sure that no word of their presence has leaked outside the secure channels… but the caves have ears.”
“So we’ll have to hurry. Have your manpower, your winches, and your wagons ready. And prepare the sacrificial slaves.”
Drazhoath journeyed deep into the underground tunnels of Zhar-Marduk, escorted by his faithful Harridans, the warrior widows. Now he knew the real race against time had begun.
In one of the outlying caves, the rat-men delegation was waiting for him, nervously sniffing the air. Drazhoath knew that many of them were hidden, but then he also had his own countermeasures in case of betrayal.
“Let’s not waste time. Do you have it? Is it intact? Did you manage to preserve it without it deteriorating?”
A particularly evil-looking skaven, adorned with the icons symbolizing their clan and their horned god, stepped forward.
“Ah yes, yes yes.. the body-corpse is here, my excellent buyer-partner. Good-excellent condition, but very difficult-complicated, long journey from Lustria, long-long. Large-bulky corpse. Dead slaves, dead warriors… many costs-expenses…”
Drazhoath muttered a few words in the daemonic tongue, waving a hand absentmindedly. A chasm opened in the floor and streams of boiling lava engulfed half a dozen of the skaven underlings. The stench of burning fur filled the air, along with the screams.
“Let’s cut the formalities short. You were going to ask me an obscene premium and I would have told you it was too high, we would have threatened each other over the price, and you would probably have told me the trick you have in store for destroying the ‘corpse-body’. I cut the procedure short. Tell me the true final price.”
The skaven licked his lips, chuckling, and gestured reassuringly to the hidden figures in the darkness.
“eheheh… clever-cheeky, yeah? The surcharge is 50%”
“mh. Maybe it can be done, but beforehand I want to see the body. Show me the Dread Saurian.”
Drazhoath was standing in the large entrance of the forge, satisfied. He had managed to complete his work and now it was only a matter of waiting.
Beneath his large robe he had donned his Hellshard armor, and he had driven all the dwarfs away. Even the Harridans were not at his side, as in this particular circumstance he doubted their loyalty… he had kept only the K’daai fireborn with him.
He did not have to wait for long.
The gate was not opened by the slaves this time. A dull roar preceded a tremendous crash, and the massive stone and metal doors were torn from their hinges. Behind them, a Taur’ruk held a massive two-handed warhammer, which had proven more than adequate for the task.
The giant bull-centaur, chief guardian of the temple of Hashut, stepped aside, allowing Ghazkorr and his personal guard of infernal ironsworn to pass. The dwarf warriors’ expressions were masked by the closed visors of their helmets, but the sorcerer-prophet’s face was one of rage.
“A QUARTER OF THE TREASURE IS GONE! A QUARTER OF MY TREASURE! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?” I SWEAR I WILL MAKE YOU BEG TO DIE!”
“I did.”
“OF COURSE YOU DID, YOU DAMNED IDIOT!”
Ghazgorr raised his scepter, ready to strike.
“I have completed the K’daai Destroyer. It came at a bit of a cost.”
For a moment, Ghazgorr was taken aback by the answer, and stood comically still with his scepter raised in mid-air.
“Do you want to see it?” Drazhoath said, as he allowed himself a smile. Behind him, the darkness lit up.
The Dread Saurian’s body was covered in armor, inscribed with runes of chaos magic that had begun to glow a blinding red. The powerful clawed legs were reinforced by armored bracers with incandescent blades, the breastplate and gorget protected the reptile’s entire torso, leaving only the toothy mouth free, while the skullcap was protected by a helmet that left the slits of the eyes open.
Hellfires burned inside the creature, turning its jaws and pupils red without consuming its body, preserved by the protective runes. Ghazgorr backed away, fearful, probably without even realizing it.
“What is that thing?”
“Do you like it? It’s almost twice the size of a Destroyer, I had it flown in from Lustria, I believe it’s the largest predator known. A worthy host for a greater fire daemon. A construct worthy of Hashut.”
“You’re a fool… I needed a Destroyer, not this… thing”
Drazhoath could no longer contain himself. A strange euphoria and excitement roared through his veins, his heart pounding, exhilarated by the bond with the chained elemental daemon.
“SHUT UP! You are weak, father… the stone is taking your body and you are afraid. You fear the moment when you will become a statue exposed on the road to Zharr-Naggrund, alongside the past Sorcerers. You fear what the magic of chaos brings… that is why you needed me to create a Destroyer, because you knew that the magic required to bring it to life would give your chest to the stone… COWARD! The stone is the medal we are awarded for knowing how to use the gifts of Hashut. And I embrace them WITH JOY!”
Drazhoath stomped his foot on the floor. Even through the sole, the dull thud of stone on stone was unmistakable. The confused Tarur’ruk backed away, and only the Ironsworn stood guard around their Lord.
Ghazgorr tried to compose himself.
“You are raving. I am the Sorcerer-Prophet of this city. You are my son. By the laws of Dawi-Zarr you owe me doubly. Kneel, now.”
Drazhoath shook his head.
“Hashut is my father, not you. It is time for this city to have a Sorcerer-Prophet able to remind the world that all the land belongs to Hashut… it is time for you to die.”
The Dread K’daai roared and charged.