THE FAITHFUL SERVANT
By Gav Thorpe


THE SKY WAS filled with the beating of black wings and the screeches of ravens, crows and buzzards. The odour of decay was strong in the air as the flock circled in the warm thermals that rippled above the burning Kislevite town. Brought from many miles around by the rotting scent of food, the huge black birds circled lower, seeking the source.
Below them, Gorlensk was a scene of carnage and wanton destruction. Many of the buildings were little more than heaps of smoking ash, and all of those that still stood bore signs of the slaughter that had occurred. Bodies were piled haphazardly where clusters of men, women and children had been cut down where they cowered by their psychopathic attackers. However, the flickering flames and billowing smoke deterred the hungry scavengers, until the chill wind brought a much stronger scent of death. The flock moved onwards and downwards, seeking out the larger feast it promised.
The scene outside the town walls was no better than inside. The shadowy shapes of the scavengers skimmed low, using the trail of dismembered bodies to trace a gory path to the main battlefield, a mile or so north of Gorlensk.
The flock's excitement grew as the rotting stench of death grew stronger. Their cries becoming more raucous, the hungry birds scattered into smaller groups that flapped low over the battlefield, each picking out a tasty-looking target. Here the potential banquet would sate the hunger of even this massive flock. The armoured bodies of knights lay next to the gouged and hacked corpses of their steeds. The blocks of infantry had been run down as they fled, and the piles of their carcasses blocked the road and the scattered farmsteads they had tried to defend.
There were more than human bodies littering the field. The feasters of the dead cawed in alarm and avoided the unnatural corpses of Chaos warriors and half-animal beastmen which lay heaped by the dozen in some areas, their armour rent by massive blows. The ground was red with drying blood, a crimson testament to the ferocity of the battle. Rats scurried everywhere, their sleek bodies matted with dried gore, as they weaved through the carnage, disturbing lazy clouds of fat, blue flies. The heavy, bloated sun was perhaps an hour from dusk, giving the scene of death and decay an even bloodier cast.
Picking out the pile where the press of corpses was greatest, the birds plunged down amid raucous skrawks and the heavy beating of wings. The bulk of the flock had just settled down to picking at the body of a brilliant white horse and the tangle of bodies around it when something stirred next to them from the midst of the dead. One of the corpses, clad in what was once a white robe now stained with swathes of dried blood, shivered slightly and an arm shot upwards to grip thin air. A plaintive cry wailed across the field, sending the scavengers flapping into the air again.
Markus rose to consciousness with a shriek, awakening from a nightmare filled with hoarse battle cries and blood-chilling screams. His heart hammered on the anvil of his chest, and his breathing was laboured and heavy. His head reeled and a feeling of utter horror swept through him. Not daring to open his eyes for a moment, unsure of what might await him, Markus paused to take a deep breath and fumble the sweat from his brow with his aching arm. His sleeve was ragged and damp, and left a warm smear upon his forehead.
As his stomach settled and his nausea subsided, Markus opened his eyes slowly, terrified that the visions from which he had woken would be true. His attention was immediately drawn to the corpses scattered all around him and he knew that his nightmare was real. The crows had returned and he watched in disgusted fascination as they gnawed at bones and pecked at tender eyes and other soft delicacies. Markus felt his stomach heave at the sight, but as he retched nothing but bile rose up, burning his throat and leaving an acrid taste in his mouth.
Markus turned his head to take in the huge white shape lying alongside him and he groaned aloud. His beautiful war-horse had been a gift from a captain of the Tzarina's Winged Lancers, given to him in grateful thanks for the many blessings he had bestowed upon the captain's warriors. The white mare lay still, legs stiff and lifeless eyes open, a gaping, leaking wound in her side providing a feast for a swarm of vermin.
As he tried to rise, Markus whispered to his four-legged companion, though she would never hear his words. 'Farewell, faithful Alayma...'
As he sat, pain lanced through Markus's left leg, making him fall back, a startled cry ripped from his lips. The pain brought back a flash of memory.

THE HIDEOUS WAR cries of the beastmen surrounded Markus on all sides. A rust-edged halberd blade thrust out of the swirling melee engulfing him and caught a glancing blow on his armoured shoulder. There was a movement in the press, like a wave coming towards him. The swordsmen all around him were being pushed back as an enormous bestial figure, a brutal mace gripped in its clawed hands, strode forward, crazed eyes fixed solely on the priest. Markus raised his hammer in defiance, but his heart quivered as he looked into that monstrous, bull-like face.
Then Alayma took over, his mount more highly trained in war than Markus himself. Rearing high on her back legs, her steel-shod hooves flailed into the beastman's face, smashing it to a pulp. Twisting slightly as she landed again, the mare bucked, kicking out behind her with her powerful legs to send another mutant foe sprawling to the ground, its chest crushed. Without waiting for guidance the mare turned and leapt through the newly created gap, carrying Markus clear. As he dared a glance over his shoulder, he saw the last of the Imperial swordsmen falling beneath the blades of the Chaos beastmen and, as he had done so many times, silently thanked Alayma for saving his life.

MORE GINGERLY THIS time, Markus managed to raise himself up on his elbows and noticed for the first time the extent of his predicament. In her death throes, Alayma had rolled onto his leg, crushing it beneath her weight. The grim truth slowly dawned on him and he whispered a prayer to Sigmar.
He was all alone on this blighted field of death, trapped beneath the heavy body of the war-horse - and easy prey for whatever creatures the fast-approaching night would bring. The thought that Alayma, who had saved his life, would now be the cause of his death, lay bitterly at the back of Markus's mind. With a sigh of despair, the priest of Sigmar tried to recall what twists of fate had brought him to such an unlikely end.
It had been a fine spring day when Markus had joined the Emperor's glorious army. For weeks before there had been increasing rumours of a large enemy force marauding through the northern reaches of Kislev. Stories abounded of the depraved Chaos horde, emphasising its merciless butchering and unholy acts of destruction.
Word came through that the Tzarina herself had requested aid of the Emperor, and shortly after came the messengers of Elector Count von Raukov announcing the mustering of an army. The recruiters came to Stefheim a week later, calling upon all able-bodied men to join in this righteous fight.
Markus had not been drawn in by the well-crafted speeches, drafted to stir men's hearts and make them feel honoured and courageous beyond their normal bounds. However, as he had watched the congregations of his sermons daily swell in size, and noticed the fervent look in his followers' eyes, he felt his own faith in Sigmar strengthening. The sacrifice of the normally peaceful townsfolk and farmers stirred Markus far more than any amount of fiery rhetoric. The humble peasants had looked to Sigmar for guidance and protection, and Markus had felt beholden to help them.
Before the newly-recruited soldiers of the Empire marched off to war in their ill-fitting new uniforms, Markus sent a message to Altdorf notifying his superiors that a replacement would be needed. When the tramp of marching feet reverberated through the hills of Ostland, Markus's tread had sounded with it.

A SUDDEN MOVEMENT close by made Markus snap out of his reverie. A fat, black rat, well-gorged on flesh and slick with the fluids of corpses, had tugged at his robe and was now attempting to gnaw at his shattered leg. The priest looked around for some form of weapon, but could find nothing close at hand. Flinging his arms about him, Markus shouted hoarsely.
'Begone! Feast upon the dead. I'm still alive, you vermin!'
Startled, the rat scuttled under the broken neck of Alayma in search of a quieter feast. Seeing his mare's neck so strangely angled brought back another rush of memory to Markus.

WITH A ROUSING blare of horns sounding the attack, the Knights Panther and Tzarina's Winged Lancers charged the vile black-clad horde, spitting hundreds of deformed adversaries on their lances within a few minutes. As the impetus of the knights' charge was spent, the crazed enemy army surged back. A wave of deformed creatures bellowing in bizarre tongues smashed into the Empire and Kislev's finest cavalry and a sprawling melee erupted.
To Markus, things looked grim, as they were assailed from all sides by the demented followers of the Dark Gods. However, the armour of the knights was holding out and they smashed and thrust at the enemy with their swords or the butts of lances, holding the sudden onslaught.
Then something unimaginably ancient and terrible rose up amongst the ranks of Chaos warriors and beastmen. The hideous creation, born of the darkest nightmares, stood thrice the height of a man and bellowed orders in some arcane tongue that did not need to be understood to strike fear into the hearts of all who heard it.
'Blood of Sigmar...' whispered the leader of the halberdiers deployed to Markus's right.
The priest turned in his saddle and scowled at the hoary veteran. 'Watch your tongue, sir! This unholiness has nothing to do with Sigmar, but is the spawn of depraved and mindless enemies.'
The daemon's massive horns gouged armour apart while its claw-tipped hands wreaked a red swathe through all who tried to stand before it. The almost tangible aura of violence and malevolence that preceded it caused the Knights to retreat rather than face its unnatural vigour and savagery.
Faced with such unholy wrath, the men of the Empire began to give ground. As the monstrosity continued to carve a bloodied path of destruction through the ranks, the retreat turned into a rout and the brave soldiers turned to flee. Markus stood up in his stirrups and tried to rally the desperate men with prayers of courage and steadfastness. He had sworn to Sigmar that he would face these foes, and even if all around him was anarchy he would fight on, alone if he must.
'Hold fast!' he cried. 'As your lord and protector, Sigmar will see you through this carnage!'
It was to no avail and the panicked horde swept around him, embroiling him in a tumult of screams and pressing bodies. As the crying mass of men packed tighter and tighter, Alayma panicked and tried to force a way free, but there was no line of retreat.
Suddenly hands were grabbing at the reins and desperate faces lunged out of the throng, intent on stealing what they thought was the only route to safety - Markus's steed. Gnarled fingers closed around the priest's robes and tugged at him, and he felt himself falling. Markus kicked out at a bearded face and it disappeared into the crowd. He tried one last attempt to restore sanity.
'Hold! Sigmar is with us! These abominations cannot harm us if our faith is strong. Victory to the Empire! Attack!'
Markus's last words were drowned out by an unearthly bellowing and the screams of the dying came ever closer. Over the heads of the Empire soldiers he glimpsed the scaled form of the daemon prince. Its massive eyes were pits of darkness and a pile of battered bodies was heaped around it. It was so close now that Markus could smell the fear that crept before it.
A blade caught Alayma and she reared, whinnying. Knocked off balance by the press of fleeing soldiers, she toppled to the ground, crashing men beneath her weight. Markus heard a cracking sound, audible even over the hoarse cries of the panicked mass. He was scrabbling about in the blood-soaked mud when a boot struck his forehead. Darkness descended beneath unseen trampling feet.

WITH A START, Markus realised that the blow that had torn a rent in his horse's side must have come much later, when the victors spilled across the battlefield, hacking and ripping at everything they could find. Sigmar had been merciful and somehow he had avoided a killing blow while he lay oblivious to the world. At that moment, though, the baying of wolves reverberated across the surrounding hills and Markus corrected himself - he was not safe yet.
A shadow crossed him as something blotted out the setting sun. Turning his head in surprise, the priest saw a bulky figure silhouetted against the western sky, picking its way through the carnage. Markus's throat was too dry to call out but he managed a croak and lifted his arm to wave at the approaching figure, silhouetted against the deep red glare.
'Over here, friend!' he called. 'Thank Sigmar, I thought none alive but myself.'
The man turned abruptly and strode towards Markus. However, far from relaxing, the priest tensed as the figure came closer. He walked directly towards Markus with a determined stride that unnerved the priest. Markus thought that anyone wandering this blighted place would surely be wary of more Chaos followers lurking nearby.
As the shadowy figure came closer, the priest could pick out more details. The man was clad in thick armour and a horned helmet, and all about him were hung dire symbols of power, sigils of the Ruinous Powers proclaiming his status and allegiances. Otherworldly runes were engraved into the black enamelled chest-plate, inscriptions of protection and power that writhed with their own energy, written in a language no normal mortal could speak. It was plain the newcomer was no saviour.
Markus's heart fluttered and he straggled frantically to pull himself clear from Alayma's heavy corpse. Pain lanced through Markus's leg again and he collapsed on his back, whimpering despite himself.
Muttering enueaties to Sigmar, Markus tried to calm his ragged breathing and studied the approaching figure, who was just ten strides from him. He tried to speak, but his throat, dry with fear, just made a cracked, croaking noise. The dark warrior now stood perhaps three paces away, not moving at all. Dark eyes glittered inside the helm's strangely shaped visor, staring at the priest with unblinking intensity.
As his own eyes took in the immense scabbard hanging at the warrior's waist, Markus recoiled in fear, expecting a deathblow to come swinging down with every thunderous beat of his heart.
Markus flinched when the warrior reached up with a gauntlet-covered hand, but the death blow did not fall. The stranger gripped the single horn protruding from the forehead of his helmet, then wrenched the helm free and let it drop to the ground.
Markus blinked in disbelief. The man in the bizarre armour was startlingly normal. His chin and nose possessed an aristocratic line, his dark eyes more amused than menacing without the confinement of the helmet's visor. The warrior looked straight into Markus's eyes and smiled. An icy shiver of fear ran through the priest. That seemingly benign expression terrified him more than the slaughter that had occurred earlier, or even the horrifying carnage wrought by the daemon prince.
The terror he felt was wholly unjustified and unnatural, and his spine tingled with agonising horror, though Markus could not fathom why the warrior was so frightening. This was no vile daemon from the Liber Malificorum, but a normal man. For some reason, this just increased Markus's panic and his whole body trembled with every shallow breath he managed to gasp.
When the Chaos warrior spoke, he found himself listening carefully and - despite the awful predicament he was in - trying to place the man's accent. He thought it might be from the Reikland, but the intonation and phrasing of the stranger's words seemed slightly mispronounced and somehow archaic.
'Are you afeared?' the sinister figure began. 'Does your blood coldly run with the sight of myself?'
Markus swallowed hard, and tried to look as defiant as possible. 'You don't scare me, foul lapdog of evil! My master protects me from the ravages of your desperate gods.'
The dark warrior laughed, a deep, disturbing sound. 'But of course you must have divine protection.' He looked around himself extravagantly. 'Amongst this slaughter you alone lie alive and breathing, spared the fate ordained for your countrymen. However, could it not be that someone other than your master has stayed the hands of your attackers?' The warrior lowered one knee into the crimson-stained earth and leaned forward to whisper in Markus's ear. 'Is your master so strong he could hide your presence from the gaze of the Lords of Chaos?'
This time it was Markus who laughed coldly, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Sigmar watches over his faithful followers; he loves them now as he loved them in life. Of course it is Sigmar who has spared me from death. My soul is pure. Your loathsome gods have no hold on me.'
The warrior laughed in mockery and stood up, wiping the filth from his armour with a rag torn from a corpse's jerkin. Markus ignored the disbelieving look directed at him.
'Sigmar provides my life and soul with every contentment they desire,' he spluttered bravely. 'There is nothing I want from your dark masters.'
The stranger moved across to Alayma's corpse, kicking at the rats that scurried underfoot. With a sweeping gesture, the Chaos warrior unhooked his dark blue cloak and laid it across the wide curve of the dead horse's body. After smoothing out a few creases, he sat down on the carcass, causing it to shift slightly and send more pain roaring along Markus's leg. The priest gasped. When his tear-misted eyes focused on the warrior once more, the strangely armoured man was still staring straight at Markus, with the same amused, almost playful look in his eyes, his mouth twisted in a slightly crooked smile.
'Did that hurt?' he said in a low voice. 'Or did mighty Sigmar prevent your mind exploding with agony for a moment? They say pain focuses one's mind. In my long experience, however, I have found pain to be a constant distraction, whether in the suffering or the infliction. You say your soul is pure - yet you have had doubts, no?'
Markus shifted uneasily, trying not to move his leg. As he looked away from the warrior's constant stare, the man laughed shortly, an unpleasant noise like the yap of a small dog.
'Was it pain or guilt that averted your gaze from mine?' the Chaos warrior continued smoothly. 'I once heard a philosopher say that life was a constant series of questions, with each answer merely leading to more questions, and only death provided the final answer to which there were no more questions.' The warrior paused and his brow briefly knitted in thought.
'Jacques Viereaux of Brionnes, I think.' He waved a dismissive hand. 'It doesn't matter. I have many such questions, and I expect you have even more. Shall we live a little, and exchange our questions for yet a little more of life? How come you here, Sir Priest? You are ageing. Nearing forty? Why would a slightly overweight, peaceful priest be found lying as a casualty on this forsaken field? What brought you forth from your shiny temple?'
Markus was confused; the stranger's words were baffling his pain-numbed mind. Gritting his teeth, he felt compelled to ask the questions burning in his mind. 'Just who are you, foul-spawned deviant? Why not kill me now? What do you want with me?'
The warrior's eyes almost glowed with triumph, the setting sun reflected in those dark orbs. 'Now you see! Questions and answers, answers and questions! This is life!' The warrior laughed again, slapping his hands on his knees. He calmed himself and his face took on a veneer of sincerity. 'I am called Estebar. My followers know me as the Master of Slaughter, and I have a Dark Name which you would not be able to pronounce, so ''Estebar'' will suffice. As for my being here? I have come for your soul!'

'LORD SIGMAR, FATHER of the Empire, Shield of Mankind, protect me from evil...' That chilling horror Markus had felt when first seeing Estebar returned with even greater strength and he whispered a prayer to Sigmar, asking for guidance again and again.
As the desperate litany spilled from the priest's lips, the warrior bent closer, his voice a savage whisper.
'Your god will not hear you.' His arm swept back, taking in the expansion of death and destruction that spread for miles in every direction. 'Around this battlefield, my masters laugh and scream in triumph. The Dark Gods' power is strong here and your prayers will go unanswered. If you want salvation, you had best ask for it of other entities than your weak lord.'
Markus tried to spit in disgust, but the thin dribble of saliva merely dripped down his chin, making him feel foolish rather than defiant. 'I would rather be torn apart by wild creatures than to ask your insane gods for aid. If that is the best you have to offer, I think my soul is very safe. Just strike me down now, and stop wasting my time!'
'Strike you down? As you wish!'
Estebar stood up abruptly, unsheathing his sword and holding it high in one clean motion. Markus flinched involuntarily and shrank back from its glowing blade. The Chaos warrior appeared to be scowling and his dark eyes burned intensely.
'See, you still want life!' Estebar sighed as he lowered the sword slowly, then slid it back carefully into its black sheath. 'You have not the conviction you would like to believe you possess. I would not strike you down, you who I barely know and yet who intrigues me so much.' He shook his head and fixed Markus with a twisted grin. 'Your faith is uncertain, so what makes you think you really have Sigmar's protection?'
'My faith is certain; be sure of that, hellspawn!'
Markus surprised himself with the vehemence of his words. The priest wanted this strange conversation to end. This was not the threat of Chaos he had been brought up, and then taught, to fight. How could one fight an enemy who tried to defeat you with words alone, spoken by a voice which seemed to hover inside one's very mind. Markus did not want to answer Estebar's inquiry, but the warrior's voice seemed to reach into his head and pull the answers from his lips.
'Sigmar has saved me before,' Markus started before he knew what he was saying, his eyes glinting with defiance. Estebar looked at him quizzically, one eyebrow raised. That one simple gesture seemed to have a world of meaning and Markus felt a tug at his consciousness, pulling the story from the depths of his memory.
'I grew up in a small village near to the World's Edge Mountains. I was the son of a miller and fully believed that I would continue running the mill after he was dead or retired.' Markus's eyes were drawn to Estebar's. Those midnight orbs were like a bottomless gulf, pulling everything into them, sucking Markus ever deeper. The words came tumbling from the priest's mouth, despair overwhelming his heavy heart.
'Then one day, in the spring, the beastmen came. They attacked without warning: the militia had no time to assemble. I saw my father and younger brother cut down by their wicked blades, and I watched as they chased my mother and sister into the foothills. I had been delivering our monthly tithe of flour, four half-sacks of the finest, to the shrine of Sigmar when they stormed out of the dark forests. They did not enter the shrine - they couldn't, it was too holy a place for their kind - but they had other plans. They were clever; they brought torches and stole oil from the store house and set light to the chapel while we were still inside.'
Markus's voice cracked and tears welled up in his eyes at the memory. The other man's black orbs continued to stare intently, as if sucking the information out of Markus. Wiping the tears from his bloodstained cheeks, the priest felt compelled to continue.
'The old priest, Franko, soon fell to the smoke and fumes and I hid in the crypt. The smoke and flames followed me, though, and I thought I was trapped and would certainly die. Even if I could get past the flames the beastmen would cut me down as soon as they saw me. Then another's voice was in my head, talking to me. It was Sigmar, you see,' Markus insisted, 'guiding me, directing me, telling me an escape route. One of the tombs was false; pressing a hidden lever I opened the secret doorway within and stumbled down a long tunnel which took me away from the village.'
Estebar's face was a blank mask, but the priest pressed on in eager confession. 'When I hit the open air again I ran and ran, and almost died of exhaustion before I came to the count's castle. He sent an army of his men to harry the foul raiders while his daughter tended to my health. She was sweet and I would have loved her... had I not heard another's calling even stronger.'
Markus remembered that feeling, of salvation from the flames, and how his own faith had been fanned from a flickering spark into the raging fire of belief. Looking at Estebar he felt his fears subsiding.
'From that day on I swore I would return Sigmar's grace. I took up the robe and hammer in his name. That is the root of my faith and though I may flinch at your blows, it is still strong enough to thwart your masters.'

MARKUS STARED AT the dark warrior, the defiance rekindled in his eyes, expecting some petty retort that would seek to belittle his convictions again. None came. Estebar sat looking thoughtful for a moment, his hand toying absently with the sculpted pommel of his sword. The warrior looked around him again at the carnage, then cocked his head to one side a moment before the howl of wolves, closer this time, echoed through the heavy air. He looked to the west and frowned.
'Sundown is nearly upon us, and the time is fast approaching. Shall I tell you of saviours and debts? Of divine deliverance and holy missions?'
As he saw the longing in the Chaos warrior's eyes, Markus's lips formed a sneer. 'I do not need to hear your tale of treachery and weakness. You are less than nothing to me!'
Estebar waved dismissively, as if Markus was little more than an irritating insect, and sighed. 'Whatever.' He looked up at the rapidly darkening sky, his memory lost in a dim, distant time.
'My faith started much younger than yours, and I had not the choice you were offered. I was the eldest son of a wealthy merchant family in Nuln. I had a good education, lots of friends and powerful allies, and all this before I had seen fifteen summers! Life was good - probably too good, my later experiences have taught me. Chaos was the bane of my family too. I can see why you were brought to me now; we have at least that much in common. Behind the strong walls of Nuln we were safe from marauding beastmen, but another peril, one much more loathsome and insidious, awaited us.'
The warrior's dark eyes were sad, though a faint glimmer of a smile played about his lips for a moment and then faded. He sat down on Alayma again, more gently this time, and stared at the ground. Absentmindedly, he began to pull off his heavy gauntlets.
'A cult, dedicated to the Lord of Pleasure, enticed us into a trap. For all we knew, it was just another magnificent party, another event in a busy social calendar. However, they locked the doors after we had entered, and then the sacrifices began. I will not say what perverse fascinations went on there, for it would take too long and I have no wish to be found alone on this field when the stalkers of the night come running. However, let me say simply that one by one the guests were sacrificed to Slaanesh, until only a few of us, the youngest, remained. Obviously we were highly prized. Fate had other plans for me, though, and when the Reiksguard broke down the doors and smashed through the windows I thought I was saved. They slew the cultists and freed us, but I was never truly free again.'
The Chaos warrior fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the withered, blood-soaked grass between his boots. Then he gave Markus a crooked smile.
'Slaanesh, Prince of Chaos, had already caught my soul without even asking for it! The warpstone incense burnt during the long ceremony took a grip on me. Slowly at first, I remember, my senses grew more powerful. I could see minute details on plants and animals, I could hear the whispers of my neighbours like the thunderclaps of a storm and the feel of the silken clothes in my wardrobe against my skin approached ecstasy.' Estebar stroked a hand through dead Alayma's flowing mane and shuddered, his lip quivering and his eyes rolled up for a moment. Then he snatched his hand back, as if taking control of himself, and his eyes narrowed dangerously.
Markus could see that the memories were not as pleasant as Estebar would like him to believe. Who could tell how much the young man had endured, half-possessed by an ancient, evil god, forced to follow the ways of darkness. Perhaps, Markus considered, Estebar was longing for an end to his curse. Mind whirling, the priest started formulating a plan that would save them both from damnation.
'There is no need for this agony to continue. Come with me and I will teach you the old path of Faith. You will learn again what it means to have your freedom,' he insisted.
Estebar did not seem to hear or want to listen; he was wholly wrapped up in his own past. Regaining his composure, he carried on with his tale.
'That was not all. My mind expanded also, giving me a prescience, a foresight into the future. Combined with everything else, my life was full of pleasure. I endured the moment to every extent and could see the later pleasures that would follow at the same time. I wasted these skills at first, taking pleasure in women and feasting and drinking. I used my foresight to amass a fortune at the gambling tables. When the rich society had been exhausted, a conquest of perhaps seven or eight years, I looked to lower quarters for my entertainment. Slaanesh had me in its grip and every night for years I frequented the dockside taverns, challenging death with cut-throats and other scum for the sheer excitement and rush of blood.' The Chaos warrior sighed again. 'Then suddenly I was bored again. A wanderlust filled me, and I travelled wide, revelling in every new experience; a night under the stars, the feel of a hearty farmhouse daughter, the taste of exotic foods. Slowly, but with a subtle determination, I made my way northwards, through Kislev, and a few elegant dances at the Tzarina's court, up into the Troll country, ever onwards to the realm of the Lost and the Damned. I was Slaanesh's pawn and loved it. I travelled those nightmare regions until I stood before the Great Gate itself and begged Slaanesh to allow me to enter into the beautiful paradise that lies beyond.' Estebar looked up, his face made of steel. 'I was flung back far, scorned and ridiculed for my impudence. Entrance into that plane was not to be given lightly. I would have to buy my way in.'
Markus was shocked. The implication of the other's words were clear. 'You seek no redemption, you truly are happy in your chains. You are a greater fool than I realised to be held by such a weak lure. The only eternity worthwhile to strive for is in the embrace of Sigmar, not some unholy hell forged from a mad god's whims!' Then another realisation dawned on Markus and he eyed Estebar with renewed suspicion.
'Souls. You must pay a number of souls to the Ruinous Powers before they let you cross over, isn't that it?'
Estebar laughed loudly and for a long time. With an enthusiastic grin he nodded. 'Yes, yes! My dear Markus - but of course I know your name; how sharply your wits are honed!' The Chaos warrior smiled benevolently. 'But not any souls. Oh no, that would be far too easy. The souls I have claimed for Chaos, for I forswore Slaanesh as my sole patron, have been men of high standing, strong of courage and moral fibre like yourself.'
Markus was shocked. 'How can anybody willingly give themselves to Chaos? Even you are not guilty of that stupidity!'
Then another thought occurred to him: they hadn't gone willingly at all, they had been used and perverted by the same subtle power that Estebar was using on him right now. In the twilight, the Chaos lord seemed to swell. An aura played about his body, spilling through the air like a vapour. As Estebar spoke, Markus fancied he could feel the insubstantial tendrils of that vile aura reaching out to wrap around him too.
'Lord Sigmar, Father of the Empire, Shield of Mankind, protect me from evil...'
Estebar seemed to grow angry, his face twisted in a sneer, eyes boring deep into Markus's head. 'You will be my last soul! You will be mine! Guided by the Lord Tzeentch, I have slaughtered thousands just to bring you here. My precognition has waxed powerful over the years and I saw this day long ago. It is the day of my ultimate triumph. I could kill you now, swifter than a blink of your clouded eye, but only you can vouch your soul to my cause. Your soul will be given over to my lordly masters. As you take my place and serve them in this world, I, Estebar, the Master of Slaughter, bringer of despair to a hundred towns, will ascend to the glories of the Otherworld. It is written in my destiny. It will be so!'

ESTEBAR RELAXED HIS hands, which had been gripped in fists so tight a trickle of blood dripped from his palms where his nails had dug deep into the flesh. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself.
'And yet at the last, you still have a choice. Renounce your faith in Sigmar and I will depart to greater glories. Without me at its head, my army will fragment and scatter and the Empire will be safe. If you defy me, I will burn, torture and defile every man, woman and child between here and Altdorf searching for another who will fall before my grace.' He sighed. 'There is no point resisting, I will have another soul, so make it yours and you can save thousands of lives, end the torment and suffering and earn your own salvation. Just a simple nod or word is all I need. What does it feel like to be the saviour of the Empire, Markus?'
'Lord Sigmar, Father of the Empire, Shield of Mankind, protect me from evil...' the priest groaned.
Markus's prayers brought no solace. The fiend's subtle words were playing tricks with his mind. The bargain sounded so simple, and he did not doubt the truth of Estebar's pledge. Markus was confused, his mind travelling in circles. How could he tell if it was truly Sigmar who had saved him from the fire in the chapel? Could it have been the twisted Chaos Gods who had freed him so many years ago simply so that he would be here now? No doubt the plans of the Dark Powers were bold and only the test of time would see their fruition. Plans within plans, wheels within wheels spun in Markus's terrified mind. Summoning his mental strength he spat out his defiance wrenching each word from the depths of his soul.
'I will... not... betray... my... lord!'
Estebar spoke again, his voice at its most subtle, sliding into Markus's consciousness and leaving its indelible mark. 'Thousands will live or die by your choice, yourself included. Whether you listen to your heart or your head, you have no real choice. Perhaps one day you will come to join me in Dark Paradise.'
Doubt crept into Markus's mind like an assassin. Perhaps he could claim his abandonment of Sigmar and thus save the Empire from the ravages of this madman, but in his heart remain true to his faith. Maybe Sigmar had been his saviour, for the very same reason that he alone could avert this catastrophe. Either way, the priest's past life took on a whole new meaning and many mysteries were now explained to him.
But what if that was but the first chink in the armour of his faith? Could he truly lie about what he believed? Was this the same path trodden by Estebar's past victims, believing themselves safe until they realised that they had lied one time too many and they were now damned? Could faith ever be feigned and would Estebar realise Markus's lack of sincerity?
As Markus wracked his brains for the right answer, the agonised yowling of some forest creature's final moments sounded across the darkness, followed by a series of monstrous roars. Estebar stood up and gazed towards the forest in the distance, pulling on his gloves.
'Make your choice quickly, priest. Other creatures more fell than wolves stalk this night. That is the cry of Khorne's hunters, the flesh hounds. I will make the choice simple for you. Even if you could free yourself you might not escape the swift chase of those daemon stalkers. You must have a symbol of your new allegiance to protect you from their ripping claws and savage jaws.'
Estebar stood and drew his sword from its scabbard once again. Startled, Markus was transfixed by the ill-forged blade. It was of the blackest metal, inscribed with golden runes that writhed under his gaze. For a brief moment, though, Markus could understand them; he could decipher the dire spells of cleaving and maiming that they embodied. The moment passed and they turned into evil but nonsensical sigils once again. Estebar thrust the sword blade down into the ground a foot to Markus's right, within easy reach. He plucked his cloak off the cold body of Markus's horse.
'Cut yourself free, priest, and you and thousands of your countrymen will live. Fulfil your destiny and take up the sword! Do not deny this; it has been written in fate since the stars were formed and the cursed sun first burned. Now I will leave you with your thoughts. Don't take too long or the choice will be made for you.'
With a bow of his head and one last regarding look, Estebar fastened his cloak again and strode away into the looming darkness of the early night.
For a long time Markus did not move, but lay with his eyes closed and listened to his own ragged breathing. There was no one else to convince but himself and he could not lie to his own heart, even if his head could be betrayed. Could he wield that twisted blade at all, even to cut himself free and still remain faithful to Sigmar? There was no guarantee that the sword would let him wield it without first swearing his allegiance to Chaos. There were tales of holy weapons that would burn the hands of the impure if they held them. Perhaps similar unholy weapons existed to test the faith of the impure. Markus was lost inside his own arguments.
A howl split the silence, and Markus imagined he could feel the padding of many huge clawed feet across the ground. The sound of bestial panting came out of the darkness. Markus opened his eyes.
The moon of Morrslieb, harbinger of Chaos, was rising over the night-shrouded forest. Silhouetted against that baneful orb was the grip of Estebar's sword. In the unearthly green glow of the Chaos moon, it looked to Markus for all the world like a hand reaching out to take him into the darkness.