It
was the first full of the Chaos Moon since the ogres had ventured into the
jungle. Even though it was invisible to
them, above the tree canopy, the ogres felt it in their churning stomachs.
This
was the closest Morrslieb had ever approached the earth. The gravitational and magical tides which
accompanied this event were threatening to tear apart the vortex of the Great
Ritual over Ulthuan. Already the laminar
rotation of the magical tornado was breaking into swirls and eddies. Before long the system would become
chaotic. In that event, this world itself
would become Chaotic very soon after.
The
Slann were not yet prepared to enact Tecciztec's plan to assail the Chaos moon. To preserve the great vortex, the energy
drain of the geomantic web was increased until the whole system was thrumming
like the strings of a musical instrument.
Unprecedented amounts of magical, celestial and thermal power was
tapped. Each temple city and its
environs were plunged into a local ice age.
The
Slann streamed the greater yield of geomantic power into the Great Ritual. This increased its rate of spin and
stabilized the vortex.
This
full moon crisis was averted, but what of the next, and the one after that? As the Chaos moon spiralled lower and lower,
the Slann would eventually find the limits of the power they had at their
disposal.
The
Skaven of the Under Empire were reputed to be without number. That reputation had taken a blow in recent
weeks.
Clan
Catarrh, under the charismatic leadership of its Under Lord, Pickit Raw, had
gone from being an insignificant vassal house to being a somewhat smaller
insignificant vassal house.
Infiltration,
surprise attacks from without, and harassment had all proven to be of limited
effectiveness against the ogre throng.
The tactic of disguising a troop of skaven assassins as jungle fruits to
wait in ambush had been particularly ill advised.
It
was testament to Pickit Raw's strength of resolve, or possibly lack of
imagination, that his swarm had shadowed the ogres this far into the interior.
"Li-i-i
izard-Things? Not
Ogre-Things?"
Pickit
Raw's gutter runner spy grinned, "And
only-ee-ee two of them, Under-Lord!"
The
leader's face split into an evil grin, "Something we-ee-ee can
defea-ee-eet? Gather the swarm. Pre-ee-eepare for a frontal assault!"
Ogres
don't creep well. Nor do they sneak or
skulk. Despite this Welhung Thunderloin and
his lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater managed to reconnoitre the Lizardmen
bastion unmolested. They had observed
two sentries on the rampart keeping a silent vigil over the jungle. There was no other sign of life.
"Why
'ave we only seen two sentries? An
outpost this size should 'ave a garrison."
Welhung scratched his lumpy nose.
This new arctic chill was of no concern to the mountain dwelling ogre. It seemed to have driven off the swarms of
invisible bees which had been tormenting him.
"Maybe
the sentries are really annoying," shrugged Rodekhil, "Anyways, we should
just level the thing with round-shot.
Garrisons don't matter if they been blasted."
Welhung
appraised the field. "Naa, we can't
bring the iron blaster cannons to bear with these trees so close. It'll 'ave to be a frontal assault."
Rodekhil
unlimbered his pair of iron falchions.
"Should we bring the rest of the lads?"
The
Ogres formed their phalanx in plain sight, just out of bow shot from the
redoubt.
"Those
lizards must 'ave balls. They ain't even
blinked!" Rodekhil observed.
Argsplat
snorted with mirth, "Balls? Lizards
ain’t got none!"
Welhung
scrutinized his iron gut captain.
"Wasn't you taller?"
"Well,
yaa, Chief." Argsplat glanced down
at the heavily bandaged stumps where his feet and lower legs should have been.
"What
'appened? Did one of the acid flowers
get you?"
"Naa,
Chief. You said I should set my socks afire
to keep them bities away. Like my dam
said."
"Ya
should've taken the socks off first, ya stupid loaf!"
"Aaah." Argsplat grimaced. "I didn't think of that."
The
Ogre assault line had been formed. It was
an intimidating wall of muscle and iron.
Still the pair of sentries did not quail.
"Bellower. Do the ‘honours." (Silent “H”s do not translate easily into the
ogre dialect).
With
a flabby salute to his general, the ogre sergeant major turned to release the
full power of his formidable vocal cords.
"Righ' you 'orrible slugs!
Step lively on the left! No! The other left! And…. march! Keep time, keep time! Left ,two, three, other left, two,
three!"
The
bellower called the rhythm of the charge, gradually increasing the tempo until
the line was rolling forward like a flabby avalanche.
Eighty
yards separated the ogres from the outpost when suddenly the front lines
faltered. The ground before them had
burst open. A seething swarm of rat men
had leapt upon the sward with their filth caked weapons at the ready. They were facing away from the ogres.
The
momentum of the ogre charge could not be checked. Rank after rank of the massive warriors piled
up and eventually spilled over the Skaven battalion. The impact alone was enough to paste the
numerically superior rodents into the ground.
From
the battlements, two saurus warriors, one armed with a hand weapon, the other
with a spear, and both frozen solid, bore mute witness to the impromptu victory
feast that followed.
The
ogres entered the city unopposed, but they did not abandon caution, nor
discipline, while there remained any risk of ambush.
"
'eres another one of the statues, like the two in the outpost," Rodekhil
observed, "This one ain’t very
impressive."
It
looked like a statue of a wizened, shortsighted, crippled, stooped, toothless,
reptilian god. The efficient looking
stone axe it bore was being used as an improvised crutch. Its outstretched hand was reaching towards a
glowing chamber at the head of a steep and narrow stair which clung to the
precipitous side of the largest pyramid.
Welhung
raised his mace as if to mimic the lizardman's gesture. "Our prize is up there."
In
the star chamber at the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid, a huge golden brazier
cast a merry glow over an inert Slann Lord, a squad of six Temple Guardians and
four worried skink priests.
Lord
Taisteslaikch'ken appeared to be slumbering on his magical throne.
Since
the Coming of Chaos, no Slann Mage Priest had risked their purity by setting
foot on the Chaos tainted earth. Instead
they were carried on ornate palanquins. In the sedentary millennia which followed, the
undefiled Slann became morbidly obese.
The corpulent amphibians grew to rival the size of ogres.
It
is unclear when (somewhere between 5th and 6th edition?) it occurred to the
Mage Priests that using a scrap of their power to levitate the palanquins would
save some effort for their attendants who had previously carried them around. What is clear is that the Temple Guardians
from that time hence had fewer work related back injury claims.
“Stone
the crows! That's the last of the wooden
effigies!" Dinki'dai, the ruggedly handsome Australustrian priest,
searched for more fuel for the brazier.
"When that burns down we'll need to chuck on some scrolls from the
casket,” he declared.
There
had been no recent spawnings of priests in Los’tmabo’tl, thus
Taisteslaikch’ken’s four skink priest attendants were drawn from all corners of
Lustria.
"Telmiwai,
keep watch.” The saurus champion who
spoke was Tanqgoditzafrid’ai, Revered Guardian and leader of this unit of six Temple
Guard. As his brother guardian moved to
comply, there was a worried chirp from the edge of the platform atop the
highest pyramid of Los'tmabo'tl.
“Mon
Dieu, there is activité down below!”
Animaux, the little Gallustrian priest was peeking over the edge.
Caneghem
joined him. “Well, that’s just great,” he
moaned. The Texustrian skink priest stood
a hand taller than his companions.
Everything is bigger in the Lone-Star Province.
One
of the guardians keeping watch called another spawn brother, “Aidontloqmundi,
the city is breached. Inform the Revered
Guardian.”
“Ah
noo! We’re heaps breached!” wailed
Tuatara.
This
last priest was an émigré from the Baabed Sheepidon infested shaky isles of New
Zealustria.
These
insignificant islands, far to the south east are known for volcanic boiling
mud. New Zealustria is so isolated from
the Lustrian mainstream that the inhabitants have formed what might be
considered a “special” relationship with their Sheepidon flocks.
A
party of ogres was visible crossing the plaza at the foot of the pyramid. The largest of their number raised an iron
bound mace and gestured toward the apex.
“We’re
breached as, Bro!”
The
ogres began to mount the vertiginous eternity stair.
“You’ve
got ’em sorted, hey mate?” Dinki'dai
asked Aidont’loqmundi.
“The
cold slows our movements, but with the Old Ones' blessing, and your magical
support, we will prevail.”
“Bugger. We’re flat out like a lizard drinking channelling
the winds, mate. The flaming geomantic web
is sucking them up like there’s no tomorrow.”
“Then
we shall fail.”
“Nah
mate,” the Australustrian was also quicker of wit than his skink brethren. “This’ll bloody sort ‘em out!”
Dinki’dai
hurled himself at a colossal obsidian sculpture in the shape of a great
serpent. “What about your arms, fellas? Are they just painted on?”
Two
of the guardians joined the effort and, together, the three toppled the
statue. It shattered on the eternity
stair and showered the ogres below with dagger like shards. Many stricken ogres were swept from the
stair, but too many continued their relentless ascent.
“Ha!
Take that, ya drongos!” laughed
Dinki’dai.
“And
thus!” chortled Tuatara, as he upended
the brazier down the stair.
“No! Ya boofhead…..” but it was too late. The embers showered the ogres and dislodged a
few more, but the loss of their only source of warmth would soon cripple the
cold blooded defenders.
Tanqgod’itzafrid’ai
felt frost begin creeping into his bones.
He shook his bone helmeted head.
“We
don’t have long before the cold will defeat us,” he murmured. Then his voice rose in a rousing crescendo
and he addressed his five subordinates, “Telmiwai, Aidont’loqmundi, Iwanashu’u,
Ooteh’hoel, Daidoun! We will do our
duty!”
Uniting
their voices in a wordless roar, his guardians joined their captain in a
headlong charge down the eternity stair.
The Temple Guard jabbed and swung their halberds and held their own,
with the advantage of higher ground. But
the mass of ogres pressed ever upwards.
“ ‘Ow
can we ‘elp zem?” Animaux was wringing
his bony hands.
The
heroic and charming Australustrian priest, Dinki’dai, had helped himself to a
metal tube from the Casket of the Cold Ones which was kept for emergencies in
the temple inner sanctum. The tinny
cylinder contained fermented, malted barley. The frothy amber liquid was close
to freezing point. “You beauty,” he
purred, “perfect temperature."
Beside
him, Tuatara rummaged in the Casket of the Old Ones which was the repository of
the mystic treasures of the temple.
“Bro!”
he exclaimed, “Thus’ll guve thum a touch
up!”
He
brandished the Forbidden Rod. This
arcane item did not draw its magical power from the winds of magic, but rather
from the life force of its wielder.
The
NewZealustrian ran to the edge of the platform and spoke the word of
command. The hand that clutched the rod
visibly shrivelled as the cursed artefact absorbed half a century of life from
the reckless Kiwi.
“Fight
your way through thus!” he shrieked as he began the gestures to release the
most reliable spell he knew.
“No!
Not that one!” hollered Caneghem
belatedly.
Tuatara
released a blizzard of shards of ice from his fingertips and hurled them into
the combat below. The ogres cursed and
shielded their eyes. Their blows could
not find their mark while they were thus blinded, but the effect on the Saurus Warriors
of the Temple Guard was far more devastating.
Every
last guardian was immobilized by the wave of arctic chill. They were frozen into ice crusted avatars of
snarling hate.
“Oh,
merde!” breathed Animaux.
The
Ogres paused and rubbed the ice crystals from their eyes before continuing
their merciless ascent.
“You
bloody moron!” Dinki’dai advanced on
Tuatara with his claws balled with rage.
“Ut’s
OK Bro, I’ll turrify thum wuth my turrifying war dunce!” The New Zealustrian priest began a ridiculous
display of stomping and chest slapping.
“Ka matae! Ka matae! Ka ora! Ka ora...”
Dinki’dai
grabbed Tuatara by the throat and squeezed until the New Zealustrian's eyes and
tongue protruded. “Mate. Do you have any flamin’ idea how stupid you
look?!”
Meanwhile
Caneghem had also rifled the Casket of the Old Ones. With a whoop of triumph he produced a small
cask of the precious Texustrian votive oil.
This he cast down the stair to broach upon the head of the uppermost
ogre. He followed up with a golden lamp
fashioned in the form of a fire salamander.
The ogre ignited spectacularly and plummeted from the side of the
pyramid like a comet.
“Sacre
Bleu! What are you doing? That oil is précieux!” Animaux was aghast at the waste.
The
Texustrian snorted. “Where I come from
we’ve got so much of this stuff, it comes out of the ground.”
“Bien.” The Gallustrian shrugged. Then he was struck by an idea.
He hurried
to the open casket and returned with a priceless flask of the Potion of
Ebullience. He loosened the cork stopper
with his scaly thumbs and spoke the incantation of activation: “Moet et Chandon, soixante-neuf!”
With
a loud report, like a pistol shot, the cork was propelled by a foaming jet of
potion. Another Ogre fell, clutching his
stricken eye.
The
other priests gaped at his wastefulness.
“We
have so many cellars packed with zese bottles in Gallustria” he explained to
justify his extravagance.
Without
a word, the laconic Dinki’dai tightened his grip about Tuatara’s scrawny neck
and hurled the NewZealustrian from the balcony.
“Nooooo
Bro-o-o....." Tuatara’s voice
trailed away into nothing as he dislodged another ogre and continued the arc of
his descent.
The
others gaped at the Australustrian.
“Please
don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that.”
The
other two priests shrugged in acquiescence and joined Dinki’dai in forming a
cordon about the dormant Slann. They
prepared to make their last stand.
The
ogre vanguard had now scaled the stair and were menacing the eternity
chamber. With a clamour and an oath,
Animaux and Dinki’dai launched themselves at the ogres, only to be swept
callously aside by an iron clad mace.
This left the dismayed Caneghem as Taisteslaikch’ken’s last line of
defence.
“Get
the chaff out of my way!” growled the ogre commander.
“Okay,
Chief!” The last thing the skink priest
saw was a fat leering face and a meaty hand grasping toward him with greedy
fingers agape, like the teeth of the Great Maw itself.
to Chapter 5: The Pursuit, coming soon.
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