Advent Stories: The Thirteenth Knightt
The bells rang out over the hallowed skies.Once, this had been a sacred temple, a place of comfort and joy for the people of the plains. The silvered bells had rung loud and clear, their laughter the herald of markets and festival days, calling the joyous to gather and the faithful to worship. No longer. Since the Hour of Ruin, when the earth of the Great Parch rent itself apart in gales of fury and warp fire, everything that made the place sacred had been ripped away. Gone were the bustle and cry of the market, replaced by the raucous shrieks of carrion birds at work. Gone were the gentle pæans of the choir and the eager steps of the faithful called to service, replaced by the scraping slap of clawed, scabrous feet on stone. Gone were the sweet, silvered words of the bells above, for though they still rang out, they had been twisted as all else in this land had been. Warped and corroded, they called in maddening unrelenting clamour a brazen monotone from leaden throats choked with rust.Their calls lifted to the air, and joined the thousand, thousand others ringing above the emergent Blight City.Within the ruined temple, the Skaven planned. A great table had been hauled forth, and around it the masters of this corner of the Parch schemed. They had to shout to be heard above the clamour. Skaven slaves, bedecked in every colour of brown and with heads held low to avoid detection, pushed and milled about the corners of the chamber, stamping and biting and clawing to be the first to cater to their masters’ whims. Towering stormvermin, their armour clanking with each movement, lounged against desecrated shrines, taking swipes at passing slaves with their razor-lashed tails. Warlord clan generals beat their mailed hands on armoured chests or thumped upon the table itself to get attention, voicing loudly their support or disdain for the order of business. Warplock engineers giggled madly at the hum and crack of green lightning crawling across their arms and lashing into the air. Eshinn assassins perched in the shadows above, silent but for lashings of their tails on the wooden rafters to show their support or annoyance. Above it all shouted the Gray Seers, a trio of them at the head of the table. They called the business of the council, issuing orders to the warlords and directing the engineers, basking in the praise of those their orders favoured or calling down dire threats on any who dissented from their command. It was the will of Blight City, the promise of power and influence for submission, and the threat of pain and penance for resistance. The three of them, sitting in the seat of the Great Horned Rat, and speaking in His name.Few noticed the new entrants pushing themselves into the chamber, or paid much care to look into the heavy, rotting robes of the plague priests as they spread themselves out around the table.A stormvermin laughed cruelly to himself as he caught the neck of a nearby skaven slave who had been refilling a large basin, forcing the smaller rat’s head beneath the faintly green glowing liquid. The laugh was cut short as the edge of a long blade whirred through the air and came up a hair’s breadth beneath his chin. Staring down its gleaming length, the stormvermin saw the tattered green cloak of a plague priest, and beneath it the gleam of plated armour. Then the figure was moving forwards, sword held steady, and the guard was forced to step back with it or be skewered. As he released the neck of the slave, the smaller rat burst up out of the warpstone wine, coughing and sputtering, and for just a moment the stormvermin saw the cloaked figure’s focus shift. Leaping backwards, he prepared to let out a great bellow of alarm, but before he could a heavy steel pommel smashed into the back of his head. The stormvermin crumbled to the ground, his armour clattering, as the second swordsman behind him let his cloak fall from plated steel shoulders.Few heard the sound of the guard collapsing, but the wave of fear musk spread like wildfire through the room. Around the table, a ring of figures cast their robes aside to reveal armoured skaven forms. Slaves shrieked, adding their own note of terror to the din and flooding the air with the scent of fear. They scrambled over each other to flee the chamber, trampling and clawing in a fit of terror, and became a stream of bodies against which the stormvermin guards struggled to fight through. Where they did, the armoured knights struck swift and sure with silvered greatswords, severing halberds in flashing arcs. The interlopers struck to disarm or incapacitate where they could, taking hands or heads only when pressed. At the high table, the knights moved quickly, casting attendants aside and trapping the council against the heavy wooden board. One of the warlords was dead, his warplock pistol having blown a hole through the first knight to approach before twin greatswords pierced through his chest and pinned him to the table like a butterfly. The others were pressed to the ground or stood with arms raised, blades at their throats. The Arch Warlock had not moved at all, only watching and giggling as the council dissolved into uproar, warp lightning cracking from eye to eye. The assassins had vanished.Only the Grey Seers fought on, swinging sword and staff in a frightful dervish. Where they struck, wood and stone and armoured skaven alike burst in sorcerous ruin. Here, however, the knights fighting them held nothing back. Silver swords leapt like fire, raining down killing blows and sending the sorcerers scrambling back in desperation. They chanted as they fought, hymnals to the Great Horned Rat, and where those black words scarred the air the seers’ spells faltered and failed them. One sorcerer stumbled, his heel caught on the body of a trampled slave, and in an instant three blades struck down through heart and bone. The second grey seer leapt forward in a flash of darkness, driving his runic sword deep into the chest of the knight before him, only to see plated hands clamp upon his wrist in a death grip. He struggled for a moment, then his head was whisked away in a silver flash by the dying knight’s partner.The final seer fought on, alone in a ring of steel. He held his staff up, gathering what power he could to form a crackling green aura, warding off the striking blades. Silver flashed down again and again, hammering, ringing like the shades of the stricken bells above, until with a flash the seer’s staff splintered and the ward collapsed.“Stop-stop! Enough!” he cried as he fell, tossing his blade from his hands. “I surrender!”The ring of skaven around him paused, their blades held ready, but took a half step back. A few looked across the room, and the seer followed their gaze to a knight with a pair of branching horns rising from his helmet. His eyes met the twin pits of blackness in the skaven’s helm, and he felt them swallow him, pin him to the floor.“Fine. I accept you surrender, seer-thing.” The voice rang hollowly inside the plate helm. “Let him stand-rise.”The knights around him parted, giving way, and moving back to stand in a circle around the council table, though the seer heard one spit out ‘coward’ beneath his breath. He rose unsteadily, unable to believe that they had simply let him live.The horned knight lifted his helmet, and the seer let out a surprised gasp. Blasphemous bile welled up within him when he saw the knight's horns were not part of his helmet, but rose from his skull.“I am Rikitr Blackfur, Gray Knight of the Ascension Court,” the knight said to the room at large, walking towards the center. Stride in stride, green fire curled up around his hand, climbing in a slow crawl like a parchment burning in reverse. As it rose, it revealed a chalice of black gold and green warpstone shining in unholy light. “I have come to give-offer you the chance of Ascension.”“ASCENSION!” The ring of knights around the table spoke in unison, their voices metal and harsh beneath their helms, but joined in shared purpose.Rikitr knelt by the knight run through on the seer’s runic blade, tipping the lip of the chalice to the dying skaven’s lips. He watched him drink the dark waters within, then pulled the sword free. Black smoke curled darkly around the blade and the wound, but Rikitr splashed more of the chalice’s liquid across it. Steam hissed angrily, black blood mingling with green, and the knight tensed in sudden pain, but stayed silent. Rikitr laid his head back down, and made again towards the table.“The Chalice of the Horned Rat brings life to the faithful, to the true. To those who know-feel that we are meant for more.”He walked carefully around the table, studying the warlords and their underlings, the stormvermin and the slaves.“Those who lie-deceive us, keep us down, keep us fighting each other instead of our enemies, who usurp-take power in the Great Horned Rat’s name-,” he looked pointedly at the grey seer, “they take from us what He has promised.”He stopped beside a stricken clanrat cradling a broken arm. “If your faith is true, your devotion to the Horned Rat all-complete, we offer the strength to take-claim all that we were meant for.” He looked into the clan rat’s eyes for a long moment, the Chalice held between them, then the smaller skaven broke and turned away.“For those with the will, we offer Ascension.”“ASCENSION!”Rikitr turned to one of the stormvermin. He had not gone down without a fight, and was bleeding heavily from a deep wound in his side and a severed forearm. They locked eyes for a long moment, then the stormvermin pulled himself up to his knees.“Is your faith complete? Is your loyalty to the Horned Rat, and the promise of Ascension?”The stormvermin could not speak, but held the knight’s eyes as Rikitr pressed the Chalice to his lips. Warplight shone in his eyes, crackled from his wounds, and the stormvermin staggered to his feet.“This is blasphemy!” The last sorcerer cried, eyes wide with shock and rage. He shot out a hand, the pure warpstone badge of the grey seers grasped within crackling with power. Magic crawled across its surface, and with a shout of fury the seer shattered the icon. Warpstone shards bit deep into the flesh of his hand, seething and spitting with power as they pierced the skin and seeped into his blood. The nearest knights tried to react, but they were too slow. A massive burst of warp lightning tore forth from the sorcerer, screeching across the chamber. It shattered the council table, vapourizing the warlock where he sat, and roared straight at the horned knight.Rikitr did not move. The warp lighting poured over and around him, a boulder in a stream of light. Warpstone runes glowed fiercely on the gray plate of his armour. Where it rolled from him, the lightning shattered and burned into the far wall, tearing great flaming chunks from the ruined temple. A bust of Sigmar on a forgotten mantle melted into a brief rain of gold. Stray lightning fell in waves into the ruins of the Parch beyond. Then it stopped.The sorcerer panted, and fell to a knee. His hand was scorched and blackened, and blood leaked from his eyes.Rikitr stood where he had been, Chalice in hand. The runes on his armour shone green, then faded back into the dull gray plate.“How?” The seer asked in a broken voice.“The Great Horned Rat looks after his own, usurper.” He was walking now, across the chamber towards the fallen sorcerer. “That is the power of Ascension. Of true faith. Of what your parasitic order took from us.”“I serve the Horned One, blasphemer,” the seer managed in a raw, cracked voice. “We have always-ever served him. You took-stole His power somehow!” He flinched as Rikitr stopped before him, towering over him, yet looked up in surprise to see the Chalice being offered to him.“Then drink, and take this power for yourself.”The seer looked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion, then snatched the Chalice from the knight’s unresisting hands. He held it at arm’s length at first, waiting to see if it would harm him, but where the liquid within spilled over the Chalice’s rim and onto his blackened hand he felt the pain flow away and strength return.Greedily, the seer gulped at the liquid with. It spilled across his muzzle and down his chest. Warplight played across his limbs. He could feel it running through his body, like a sprinkle of light rain at the same time as a bolt of fiery strength. He felt whole, strong, powerful, like he had never felt before. The warpstone he had absorbed from the amulet was nothing compared to this. He felt he could level mountains, tear the realms apart a second time with only his hands. He looked down at his blackened arm, and saw it rebuilding itself before his eyes. New flesh, strong and firm, replaced the blackened bones, and new white fur sprouted along its length. He watched his fingers grow long and strong, claws like talons sprouting. The muscles grew and spun, twisting along his arm, and suddenly pain shot through the euphoria that surrounded him. Ropy muscles twisting across his arm, his back, and then he felt the bones beneath snap under the pressure, grinding together as they reformed and reknitted together. His flesh split as bony spines grew through his flesh, sawing through skin and tendon to burst free. He tried to scream, but his mouth would not work. Jaws twisting, teeth and fangs becoming a tangled mass of sharpened tusks, he stumbled forward on legs that broke beneath his wracking form.“Brother Quolk!” The knight beside what was the seer stepped forward, and in one swift flash of silver severed the thing’s head. He knelt, and retrieved the fallen Chalice. Already the body was breaking apart into pools of stinking, blackish-green slime that burned the stone floors beneath it.“Remember this,” Rikitr said, looking to his knights and the room at large. “Ambition. Greed-want. Power without purpose is what he worshipped. It is why we shall win. For though they are many-many, they are many alone. We are few, but few united under purpose. Under the Great Horned Rat. That is the path to Ascension.”“ASCENSION!”
