The Unholy Legions of Anti-Sanctus Chaotica, a Warhammer Online Destruction Regiment, From the Mouth of Chaos

A continuation of Into the Nether

Zemok heard the shrieking of the wind past his ears as his body hurtled through the air. After a moment, he realized the shrieking sound of the wind was not the rushing of chaotic turbulence in the air, but was in fact himself shrieking uncontrollably.

He felt a tingling sensation briefly along his pallid flesh, more akin to thousands of bugs biting and crawling about him rather than the more precise feeling of needles poking the skin one normally associates with a tingling sensation.

His flight through the air ended as abruptly as it started with a muted thud as he hit a wall of some kind of yielding material, then fell to the ground in an unceremonious heap.

As his head stopped spinning and his vision cleared, he realized several things at once. He could no longer feel the turbulent energies of the warp tearing at his tattered soul. He was lying upon a freezing pile of snow, and the soft wall he had hit had been a rather large human dressed in furs that had apparently become a sheath for the wicked blade his hand still spasmodically clenched.

He squinted as the reflection of light from the ungodly bright, white snow sent stabbing lances of pain searing into his bloody eye, as well as the other that remained the color of molten bronze. Blurry images coalesced into the forms of hundreds of humans, all wearing the same expression of shock on their faces.

Zemok slowly stood upon shaky legs; his hand still gripping the hilt of the daemonic blade so tightly that his hand was cramping. He could faintly hear the cackling, sibilant thoughts of the swords soul whispering in his mind as he took in his situation.

It appeared he was in the center of some ceremony, the barbarians about him wearing ceremonial garb and tribal designs painted on their human faces. The largest of these, a monster of a man with a thick, wiry beard and long braided locks of flame red hair approached him, babbling about something and looking quite angry. Zemok frowned at the behemoth of a man, wishing he could understand what he was saying in his barbaric tongue.

He could faintly hear the voice of the sword chuckling in the back of his mind…and then it extended its influence over his mind ever so slightly. Gradually, Zemok could understand what the barbarian was saying.

"…From Khorne himself? Or have you stumbled upon your death this day?"

Wondering if he could now speak the barbarian tongue as well as understand it, Zemok responded. "I stumble upon my death every day, yet somehow I am still here. Do you wish to try your luck barbarian?" He heard himself say in the barbarian's language.

The barbarian stopped well away from Zemok, eyeing the sword and the corpse it was lodged in.

"You have slain a high priest of our tribe. The punishment for this is death."

Zemok raised an eyebrow in the direction of the massive barbarian. "Do you not know who I am? Why I am here? Has this thought even crossed your pathetic little mind?" Zemok sneered, stalling for time to think of a way out of this new and confusing situation.

The barbarian looked around, taking in the expressions of his tribe, then crossed his arms over his chest. "The question is, do YOU know who you are? Or why you are here?"

Zemok chuckled to himself, still stalling for time. "Must you ask? Look about you!"
As he shouted this, he drew the blade from its fleshy sheath, raising it in the air above his head and spinning a slow circuit before coming to a halt facing the red bearded warrior once more.

Thinking quickly, Zemok took in all that he had seen. This must be the other side of the Chaos portal, and he must have been knocked through it. These barbarians were performing some kind of rite here…and they must have been expecting something to come through the portal…perhaps the blood thirster?

So he thought to himself. They must have been expecting a champion, or some sign from Khorne for a battle perhaps? Perhaps they believe me to be this sign?

Sneering at the gathered forces, Zemok quickly took command of the conversation as a plan formed in his mind…though how much of it was his devising, and how much was the blade, he could not say.

"I have come to you from the eternal battle on the plains of blood! You cannot deny this! You have seen me arrive just now!"

Zemok paused for dramatic effect, and could hear the members of the tribe murmuring their assent amongst themselves. The red bearded chieftain simply stood, staring icily at Zemok as if attempting to peer into his wounded soul.

"I have been sent to bring you a gift! But as with all great things, there must be a sacrifice! Your high priest was chosen as this sacrifice. The chosen blade of Khorne has been whetted with the blood of your own!"

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!" He shouted, hoping that the often-repeated battle cry he had heard in the ruinous dimension of Khorne would be appropriate here.

He was rewarded with the thunderous response of the tribe; "SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!!!"

Smiling now, Zemok shoved aside the rantings of the blade in his head as best as he could. Apparently its ravings were not so strong on this plane, at least for now. The influence of Khaine once again filled his soul and helped him control the dominance of the blade.

"Who amongst you would claim the right of supreme champion! Who amongst you deems himself worthy of Khorne's blade! Who would be Khorne's chosen!"

A murmur of excitement rushed through the tribe at Zemok's insinuated proclamation. Covetous and greedy eyes gazed upon the ruinous blade in Zemok's upraised fist.

Several of the largest humans Zemok had ever seen stepped forth to answer the challenge.

"I will take the blade from your cold dead fingers, outlander, and I will be Khorne's champion!" Shouted a massive, bald headed would be champion. He stepped forth and raised a massive two-handed sword above his head, shouting a battle cry to Khorne as he charged.

Zemok blinked in surprise at the twist in events, but in that instance the sword took over, leaping up to intercept the massive two handed downswing of the barbarian with unbridled glee.

The blade easily turned aside the blow of the larger warrior and thrust through his throat and back so quickly Zemok did not even see the strike. He only saw the gout of lifeblood that flooded over him as the startled barbarian gurgled his last breath and fell on his face next to Zemok, never to rise again in this world.

Quickly, before the sword could take over again, Zemok shouted," Halt! You must decide a champion amongst yourselves! For you will not prevail against this blade! It shall willingly give itself to the chosen champion!"

The warriors, hesitant to approach the deranged Druchii after witnessing the sudden demise of one of their strongest warriors grudgingly waited to see what the Druchii would do next.

The chieftain still stood as still as ever, awaiting the outcome of the situation.

Zemok stood there, furiously attempting to find an answer to his dilemma. On instinct alone, he gathered his thoughts and forced his consciousness within that of the blade. Images of battles long past flashed through his head, raw emotions of savage glee and murderous rage flooded his mind, but within it all, the secrets of the blade itself were revealed in part to him.

Painfully dragging himself from the mind of the blade, he focused all of his will into breaking the mental contact.

Panting from the exertion, he saw the confused faces of the tribe watching him…evidently his foray into the ego of the blade had taken longer than he had thought.

Smiling faintly, he shouted out" Let the worthy of Khorne be known! Who so ever can take up this blade shall become the Champion of Khorne, and lead the tribe on the greatest conquest it has ever known! So sayeth Khorne!"

With that he turned the blade downward and thrust it as deep into the frozen ground as he could, and stepped back away from it. Every step farther away from it, the influence of the blade diminished, until finally he could breath easy.

Now all he had to do was wait.

One by one, the massive, prideful warriors of the tribe lined up. The first, an older warrior with graying hair stepped up to the blade and without pause gripped the hilt in his massive hand.

Immediately, he dropped to his knees with a gurgled scream, blood pouring from his nose, mouth, eyes and ears until he fell over, dead.

"This one was found lacking. Khorne knows your true soul! Do not think to fool your god!" Shouted one of the priests. Whether he really believed this or not, Zemok did not know. More than likely the zealot was only jockeying for position, since Zemok had inadvertently killed the head priest of the tribe.

Several of the warriors backed away from the blade, their courage lost. Two more attempted and ended in the same fate as the old warrior who had tried initially.

Finally, after watching silently as many of his warriors either perished, or showed their cowardice to the blade, the chieftain shouted, "ENOUGH! I will wield the Khorne's blade! There is no other greater than me here!"

The warrior who had been about to approach the blade backed off at his chieftain's command, appearing more grateful than disappointed.

Zemok nodded at the courage and insight of the tribe's leader. He could very well die attempting to draw the blade, but if he didn't, and someone else succeeded, he would be in a bad position within the tribe.

Magnus the Bold walked up to the blade, and in one smooth motion, reached out and grasped it, drawing it forth from the cold ground.

The blade shivered his grasp, a mirage of heat emanating from it, and to Zemoks knowing gaze, change that came over Magnus as the blade's Daemon asserted it's dominance was a palpable force.

The tribe looked on in stunned silence, along with Zemok, then one of the priests shouted out "LONG LIVE MAGNUS!!"