#plotpoint

The Herald of Malal-Khade hissed, a shadow-thing with the suggestion of daemon-shape-- horns, claws, a maw of fangs and a pair of glinting coals for eyes. It hung before Skarbrand, much smaller but with the mien of a creature bigger and stronger than even the Reaper. A favored daemon of the hybrid-god, it displayed it's mark proudly for all assembled and seemed to dare the Exile to contest the message it brought.

Skarbrand felt his claws twitch with ire. He quashed the murderous urge by balling a fist but was unable to keep his sentiments out of the words he growled. " He need not. I am a daemon of my word."

Indeed, the ranks of Infernius had been gathered up into ranks. Mortals hopped up upon their destriers, Bloodletters upon their Juggers. Men clustered behind siege machines, pushing the iron-spiked wheels forwards. Beastmasters whipped and harried war-creatures ahead of themselves. Skarbrand tilted his head.

" And what of Khade? What numbers can he put to my own?"

The Herald snorted, as if this was a stupid question. " He is a God, Reaper; a power beyond even your own. A god in the flesh, that mortals can see, hear, obey. Legions flock to his banner, for fear of utter damnation." The creature chortled. Though it spoke it not, both of them knew Skarbrand had done much the same as the fleshlings.

" I will trust my eyes more than your words."

" When you see what he has gathered, you may not even trust those, O' Reaper." The shadow-thing laughed, it's voice fading and fluttering as it's existence guttered in and out. Skarbrand watched it float out of reach, realizing it meant to lead the Reaper and his warriors wherever they were meant to go. A distrustful pang stung his heart, but he ignored it, looking to his Blood Reapers instead. He assigned hosts, marching orders, routes to the Chaos Realm. And all the while a feeling in his chest sat and persisted.

The same feeling he had gotten when he had marched up the stairs to the zenith of the Brass Keep to strike Khorne down... Striding to the head of the largest host, the Reaper bellowed.

"MARCH! We bring blood and fire to the heart of the Witchbreed! We will show those cravens what it means to truly wage war!"

And avenge the Reaper's wounded pride.

---

The march took days, insofar as they could be measured this far north. Here, time was a dubious concept at best, one that meant less and less the closer they drew to the Empyrean. Every so often, the Reaper would look up and spy the shadow-thing, the daemon darting ahead and to the left or right, leading them every onward, winding through Nurgh-corrupted lands.

Khazaan and Kha'xanzyr followed a respectable distance behind him, the presence of the former providing some small measure of comfort. As for Kha'xanzyr...the Reaper was a keen to watch him as the shadow-thing. Skarbrand had donned his Zharr armor, and the black zharr-axes containing the Greater Daemons of the Shadow God. When they had at last been led to stretch of wasteland serving as a camp for the fused God's forces, the fact of it had gotten him looks from the Shadow Daemons.

After them, he took stock of the others the Usurper godling had gathered in the few short months after that momentous battle at the Brazen Altar. Beastmen, as always, were plentiful and milled about in their myriads. Some were black and white, in the manner of Malal's chosen, and others were bright red followers of the Red God with fierce feline features. There were no few mortals, clad in chaos armor and embossed with the rune of either, or even both, gods. Skarbrand could spy the remains of past allegiances-- brands and markings of the four paved with new, fresh brands or outright dug out of the skin with claws and blades. Lastly, there the daemons, milling about in an uneasy coexistence with the followers of Chaos. All sat beneath the shadow of a lone, black mountain, the darkness it caste broken up here and there by pyres and spits of roasted meat.

Khade had stolen these warriors from the Worship of the Ruinous Powers, and now he meant to challenge the gods themselves, using those same spoils. Even Skarbrand had to acknowledge the audacity, the boldness; if there were any questions about Khade or Malal's kinship to Khorne, they had been soundly stamped out.

" Where is Malal-Khade?" The Reaper demanded, turning his eyes to the shadow-thing. It did not answer, but something else did. The very earth, it seemed, shook and rattled in response to the question. Skarbrand looked about himself, freezing at he again noticed the lone mountain cloaking the army in darkness. It began to move, unfolding into bestial shape. It's jagged peaks became the back-spines of a monster and long, but stocky, limbs. A nest of curling horns crown it's long face, the god bearing features both felid and draconic. Eyes appeared, blues and whites and scattered liberally about it's hide. Feathers clung to the creature, the fused god shaking himself as he stood to his full height. He was enormous, much larger than when he had come to Infernius to boast about his new form.

Immediately, his followers knelt in his presence, flattening themselves to the earth. Skarbrand could even see some of his own forces cower to their knees from the corner of his eyes. Khazaan stumbled back a step and Kha'xanzyr bowed before his new patron. Only the Reaper stood firm, unimpressed. Refusing to gratify Malal-Khade with his submission.

"𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑷𝑬𝑹 𝑶𝑭 𝑳𝑬𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑫." Malal-Khade begin, speaking with two voices. " 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑶𝑹 𝑼𝑺 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑫 𝑻𝑶 𝑪𝑶𝑴𝑬."

Skarbrand said nothing, and so the hybrid deity looked to his children. He raised both arms out to his side and from his position on the ground, it appeared as if he were holding both moons -- Mansliebb and Morsliebb, in his talons.

"𝑹𝑰𝑺𝑬 𝑴𝒀 𝑪𝑯𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑵. 𝑹𝑰𝑺𝑬 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑹𝑬𝑱𝑶𝑰𝑪𝑬! 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝑩𝑬𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑺𝑬 𝑯𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑺 𝑳𝑰𝑬 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑻 𝑭𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑵 𝑮𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑺. 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑩𝑬𝒀𝑶𝑵𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑺𝑬 𝑮𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑺, 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑫𝑶𝑴 𝑶𝑭 𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑹𝑼𝑳𝑬𝑫 𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑶𝑫 𝑶𝑭 𝑫𝑬𝑪𝑬𝑷𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵. 𝑩𝑼𝑻 𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑺 𝑫𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑾𝑰𝑵 𝑾𝑨𝑹𝑺 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑵𝑶 𝑴𝑨𝑮𝑰𝑪 𝑾𝑰𝑳𝑳 𝑩𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑶𝑭 𝑨𝑮𝑨𝑰𝑵𝑺𝑻 𝑴𝒀 𝑷𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹!"

At this, Malal-Khade brandished his stolen Blade, a symbol of his deeds so far and a suggestion of what he could further accomplish. His followers did as they were bid, grabbing their weapons, mounting their steeds, and marching towards the blinding not-light of the horizon. Into the mouth of the hells. The fused god begin to stride ahead of them and with a glance backwards, Skarbrand felt his own hooves shift into motion.

The coveted day had come. He would caste down Tzeentch's kingdom as he had Slaanesh before him, as he had razed the Gardens of Nurgle.

Such as went he finally released Freysin back into the field, only to bog his son down with a task fit for a mere Herald. The Malicious One seethed, stepping into the mortal realm from the portal he’d been sent through. Such a paltry task for one as powerful as he! And Malaneth had even been so iresome as to place him far from his goal. It would take days, weeks to reach the Badlands and then days more to “convince” the Hellsmiths to part with their best sorcerors. 

No one could bind souls to blades better than the Dawi-Zharr. And the peices of Khade were no mere shards of some luckless daemon. No, it was God-stuff, and the souls of the Dawi-Zharr belonged to the Forge Daemon-God, Hashut. What better materials could there be to see the ritual through? Freysin tried to take pride in that; as simple as this task seemed, there would be far reaching consequences if he succeeded.

...Or failed.

That thought burning in the back of his brain, the Greater Daemon secret himself among the men of Estalia and quickly sniffed out a cult of his god’s followers: worshippers, supplicants, and thralls. Tools he would use to see Malal’s will, and his own, be done. One thing they had over the cultists of other gods? Malal’s acolytes moved with a relative freedom that even the Slaaneshi could not boast. They were hailed by the common man and even tolerated by the Witch Hunters. 

The enemy of your enemy was indeed a friend...

“ The God of Shadows hungers for the talents of the Dawi-Zharr,” He hissed at the cult he had assumed command of, secreted away on the watery fringes of Bilbali. “ But they are creatures of chaos. They will not come willingly and for all my power, I am only a single daemon.” Freysin’s eyes swept over the assembled mortals, prostrating themselves.

“ You will go to the other cults who worship my father. Tell them their god has need of them and that there is Hashuti blood that need spilling. Go! Once the number of thralls is to my liking, we will trek east to the Dark Lands.”

"You have had your time, disloyal cur. You have had your chance!"

Skarbrand doesn't waste a breath on his brother, I am still the strongest daemon brother. That is no time passed, that is now. That is forever.

The Reaper leaned back, allowing the bulk of his brother forward. He stepped out of the way of the oncoming daemon, his axes flashing out and cleaving a wing from the taur-like Bloodthirster's back. First blood; it had gone to Skarbrand, the limb slapping to the blood soaked ground, flexing weakly. The crowd roared, and Skarbrand could feel Khorne's displeasure filter down from where he observed.

Perhaps An'ggrath did as well, for the larger daemon swung himself around, catching Skarbrand with his fist before the other daemon could leap away. They bawled flesh collided solidly with his gut, and while it didn't damage the plate much, it certaintly winded the Wrathful Reaper. An'ggrath pulled back his hand, having cut himself on the sharp edges of the Daemon Armor, his blood black. He sneered at Skarbrand.

" You crafted that armor for me, didn't you? For this duel?" An'ggrath was a mixture of smug and frustrated, " I thought you had forged it to do battle with bastardkin...but you were in terror of me the whole time, weren't you?"

" Being prepared is no admission of fear." Skarbrand rumbled back, but he refused to be goaded. Recklessness was not a vice he could afford to indulge in here, not like An'ggrath. Or Arrogance, he noted to himself mentally as the other Bloodthirster cackled.

" Defeat must have sat heavy on your mind, brother." The Unbound rumbled. Skarbrand sneered.

" At least that mind is my own, Malal-touched."

An'ggrath bristled and Skarbrand predicted the attack that followed. But it was fast, too fast to dodge; the Reaper could only guard against it, locking the pair of them once more in a stalemate.

" Kharneth will restore me. After I kill you, the title of Strongest of Daemonkind will be mine undisputed. And you? You will not even be allowed to reform!" An'ggrath grabbed the Reaper before he could react. Shoving was one thing, but the Unbound was certaintly strong enough to lift and then slam the smaller Bloodthirster. Skarbrand felt spiderweb cracks open up in his brass skin, but he wasn't down for long. Pushing off the ground with his wings, a mailed fist crashed in the Unbound's face hard enough to stagger the other daemon. As An'ggrath fell away, Skarbrand rose and followed up, planting his hoof firmly in the middle of the Unbound's cuirass.

Unlike his own, the metal did not hold. It warped, bending and cracking. An'ggrath stumbled once more, but the recovery was fast and the incoming Skarbrand found himself dodging several pairs of horns and sharp hooves. Despite his fury and desperation, An'ggrath's counterattack could only claim to scar the Reaper's armor. Superficial damage that would mean nothing in the grand scheme of the fight. The Exile had smaller, quicker, and had sparred with the greatest and fastest of the Keepers of Secrets. To his eyes, An'ggrath was slow and plodding so long as a he wasn't already close. And Skarbrand didn't allow that, using one false swipe to come up with his arm, gripping Harrier.

Exquisite Agony lanced through the Unbound, magmatic blood weeping from the wound that result. Pushing through the pain, however, An'ggrath grabbed extremity and while he found bending the armor not among his options, wrecking the limb anyway still was. Skarbrand roared, feeling the bigger daemon pull him close and then wretch his forearm back. Tendons and brass-flesh cracked and ripped. An'ggrath kicked him away with a laugh, the limb hanging limply by his side when he rose.

The Daemons around them jeered. The two Malalians within Skarbrand's armor did as well. Skarbrand himself merely snorted. A wing came down, the digits at the joint grabbing the weapon in their fingers. A weaker grip than his good arm, but that was better than his damaged limp. Suffering. N'kari would drink deeply of the agony loosed here, and that would make Harrier all the keener. But the Reaper was still adamant most of that suffering be An'ggrath's own.

Sensing weakness, An'ggrath galloped forward with his axe raised. When he brought it down, Skarbrand was not there, the earth exploding where he'd once been. He followed up, with hoof, with axe, with flames that were still black. The Zharr armor warded away most of the flare, Dominion flashing through the fire to bury itself in An'ggrath's shoulder. Daemonflesh split and melted, Freysin feeding off the blood and suffering of it's former wayward charge. Harrier sliced down as well and the Reaper was treated to the horror and fury of the Unbound as he found several of his prized horns reaped from his crown.

" Your head will soon follow!" Skarbrand roar, taking advantage of the other Bloodthirster's stunned fury. An'ggrath recovered fast enough to carve an angry diagonal line from Skarbrand's shoulder to his hip, his rage reaching such heights as to cut through even the Zharr armor halfway through the trip. The Reaper felt the hot blade of his brother in his flesh, but didn't so much as flinch. An'ggrath's weapon was down, caught in his flesh and his wings were not big enough to guard him. Many of his horns were gone; nothing to impede the the swing of his purple axe.

It was perfect, the edge of Harrier burying in the side of An'ggrath's thick neck. Skarbrand caught his brother's eye, and saw instantly the moment he realized his mistake. The Reaping Blow.

There was no resistance, the Slaaneshi daemon's soul offering a razor keen blade like no other. Paired with the Reaper's raw strength, Harrier sang through the Unbound's flesh as if it were not even there. The Bloodthirster had ended before he knew he had, making to pull his axe from the Exile's hip, but finding he could not. When he glanced down he was treated to the sight of a steadily growing trickle of blood. Then the pain. The sharp, sensual pain of his life being reaped away. Dropping his axe, his fingers gingerly felt the killing wound.

He looked up at Skarbrand, not in shock or rage, but fear and disbelief. Then he collapsed, a puppet with it's strings cut, and his great body shook the ground when it finally fell. The head spilled from the corpse as if it were never attached, frozen in terror and surprise. The Bloody Pit was silent; even the Daemons did not cheer. Then there was a sound, like massive amounts of cracked earth being tilled by some machine. Like nails on metal. Skarbrand glanced up to see Kharneth leant forward in his great brass throne, one taloned hand reaping a trail of ruin along the bone-and-metal arm of his seat of power.

He had won. And he hadn't had any doubt that he would. But what would Kharneth do, here, for the eyes of billions of his children, greater, lesser, and least? For a long time, the Blood God simply observed, though he didn't seem to be as shocked as everyone else. There anger there, yes, but it simmered beneath a pall of disappointment.

Skarbrand leaned down, pressing his hoof to An'ggrath's body before it crumble away. The skull he held up; an offering, as promised. Then he spoke.

" My freedom. My fortress." He looked at Ursun's skull, suspended above them, " My skull. We had an agreement, Kharneth."

"𝐒𝐎 𝐖𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐃, 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐍." The Blood God responded, though he didn't recall any mention of a fortress. Ka'Bandha swooped down, looking in turn at An'ggrath and the skull that Skarbrand held, as well as the larger Reaper himself. He took the trophy from the Exile's claws, glaring at the traitor and then flying off. As soon as he did, the Blood God again rose his arm, a great red-ringed portal yawning beneath the battlefield, swallowing fortress and combatants both, back into the Realm of Mortals. A legion of furies stormed overhead, flanked by Bloodthirsters, the daemons all taking hold of the Bear God's skull and carrying it carefully towards the wide portal.

Skarbrand looked at the purple axe clenched in his wing's hand. He had done it. They had done it.