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    Perfect World (WHFB)

    To give this story some context - this story was written for a worldwide campaign that Da Warpath ran last Winter. In the campaign, rebellion has broken out in Araby - with the rightful Sheik calling upon the Forces of Light (Araby Reclamation Pact) for assistance, and the ursurper Caliph Haseem bargaining with the Forces of Darkness (Covenant of Shadow).

    Enjoy



    Chaos reigned supreme. Just as it always should do.

    Solomar parried the strike of the Imperial swordsman and struck out with a counter-attack, leaping to compensate for his foe’s desperate withdrawal. As his sword skewered into his opponent’s chest, he sensed the approach of another from behind and turned. The Arabian yelled a harsh warcry as he came at him, and the Chaos Lord moved swiftly to avoid a trio of spear thrusts. Each drive caught nothing but air, and with contemptuous ease Solomar slid past the outstretched weapon and caught his attacker with a cut across the neck. The man tried to scream, but the pressure only forced more blood out of his lethal wound – as an unusual display of mercy, Solomar decapitated his foe to spare him any further agony. Another pair of combatants, duellists with light skin foreign to this nation, quailed before the sight of the Lord of Chaos. They knew Solomar to be their doom, the being that would crush the life from their feeble bodies. For a moment, the warlord imagined they felt regret for devoting their life to weak Gods, for failing to serve the Ruinous Powers as they should have done. As he advanced towards the doomed Imperials, Solomar dismissed the notion as falsehood. They would not seek repentance. Even in their dying moments, these fools would never understand.

    He swung in a wide stroke, overcoming the guard of the first swordsman with brute force. His blade tasted flesh, and both men cried out; one in pain, the other in horror. The warlord let the second warrior assault him, his lips curling as the attack rebounded uselessly from his armour. Withdrawing his sword of dark iron, he shattered the weapon of the weakling Imperial, before spearing him through the shoulder blades as he tried to flee. The warrior hit the ground, Solomar’s sword still stuck through him. The Chaos Lord turned back to his crippled first opponent and with a backhanded blow from his armoured gauntlet sent him crashing to the ground with impossible force. As the state trooper tried to crawl away, the giant pinned his foe beneath his iron-booted heal and reached to reclaim his sword. With agonisingly slow precision, he carefully slid the weapon through the Imperial’s torso. He wanted to prolong this man’s death, to provide him with as long a chance to repent as possible.

    His victim began to mumble something, and Solomar leaned down to listen to him.

    “Sigmar…please…protect me…” the dying man whispered. With a disappointed sigh, Solomar withdrew his blade, the Imperial exhaling once more before lying still.

    The Lord of Chaos looked up for fresh enemies to slay, but finding the battle already won. He’d been dismounted and separated from his knightly retinue by a mortar blast, but now his followers had returned to destroy those who’d attempted to mob him. Those who stood and fought were slain mercilessly; those who tried to flee were run down.

    He caught sight of his Sorcerer Q’saerol torturing to death an Arabian raider and his steed, and called to his minion. The Slaanesh worshipper immediately noticed his master, slaying his victims with a flick of his staff and instantly rallying to join him. Like Solomar, he was dismounted, and drenched in the blood of those he’d slain.

    “My lord,” Q’saerol submitted in his usual silky tones.

    “Find me General Tapel,” Solomar commanded. “And whatever man commands this Imperial rabble.”

    Q’saerol nodded, facing a seemingly random direction and tapping his staff twice upon the ground. Out of nowhere a vast serpent appeared, slithering through the field of bodies and rising to tower over its master. The Sorcerer reasserted his will with a quick jolt from his staff, forcing the daemonic beast to kneel and accept its rider. Mounting his steed of Slaanesh, Q’saerol pointed east and spurred his bearer into action.

    As the Sorcerer’s snake vanished into the distance, Solomar smiled triumphantly. He knew he could trust Q’saerol to bring back the two captives alive, unlike the less restrained Kelghor, his champion and herald of Khorne.

    It had been a swift victory, much as he had expected. The other cohorts of the Caliphs would think twice before betraying the Covenant of Shadow.

    He’d heard of General Tapel’s defection a few days ago, during the mustering of legions in prelude to the campaign proper. The news had been bad for morale. The compete destruction of the traitor’s force was the only thing that could restore the integrity of the rebellion and prevent further mutinies. That it had also given the opportunity to annihilate the Imperial scum that had inspired this insurrection was an added bonus.

    A short while later, the prisoners Solomar had sent for had been brought before him, accompanied by a number of Chaos Warrior guards. The two captives could not have been more different; General Tapel was aging, dark-skinned and clearly terrified by the gigantic butchers that crowded around him. The other warrior was a young Imperial native, probably just as scared as Tapel but doing a better job of disguising his fear. Solomar sneered. This boy looked about twelve years old.

    “This is not the Imperial commander,” he snarled at the nearest guard.

    The Chaos Knight bowed his head. “Lord Q’saerol is sincerely apologetic to report that Baron Lutindorf was devoured by the Flesh Hounds of Khorne at the height of the battle. His son, Victor, is the only surviving lieutenant.”

    Solomar nodded with reluctance, irritated but not entirely surprised by the mindless slaughter his warriors had unleashed. He turned to face General Tapel, his eyes narrowed through his helmet’s sockets and boring into the Arabian’s own. Tapel quailed beneath his gaze, shaking and turning to face away. By now a large group of Chaos soldiers and loyalist prisoners had gathered around the two generals, and Solomar gave up on the Arabian, knowing that the sight of the General whimpering and defeated and inflicted as much damage upon his enemies’ morale as he needed to do.

    He regarded the other man, Victor Lutindorf, and smiled at the young fool’s defiance.

    “Your armies are defeated and your insurrection has failed,” Solomar stated in fluent Riekspiel. One of the more subtle gifts the Gods had granted him was the knowledge of all the tongues of Man, the better to intimidate his enemies. “The so-called Araby Reclamation Pact has failed to oppose me and will soon bow before the rightful ruler of this kingdom.”

    Lutindorf shook his head. “My people shall triumph and I will be avenged. You will die, fiend of Chaos.”

    Solomar grinned again. “I’m sure I shall, child of Sigmar. But not for many decades yet.”

    He paused for a moment, spotting the arrival of one of his scouts – a messenger bearing news of the support Ares had gathered from Naggaroth. Before this news could be relayed however, the boy-general distracted him.

    “Why have you done this?” he whispered.

    Solomar frowned. “What?”

    “Why have you instigated this campaign of slaughter? What you do is evil.”

    Solomar laughed sardonically, any respect he had for Victor Lutindorf falling away. “Morality is subjective to the point of irrelevance, boy. I serve my Gods as they see fit, just as you do. Who are you to dictate your own view of good and evil to deities older than creation? Do not seek to lecture me on ethics until you have laboured in the shadow of the Wastes, noble swine.”

    The boy managed only a frown in response to this, and Solomar snarled. “Fool. You dismiss my people as crude and savage yet blind yourself to the corruption in your own world. The tribes of my people rules as a democracy – the power is with the people for they fight to ensure it is so. What mark would you leave on history were you not your father’s son? It is just that your people should die, that your feeble attempt to impose order on a world imperfect should fail as it was doomed to from the start. Chaos is the way forward, the future of this world, and of the two of us only I shall live to see this paradise born.”

    Tiring of his conversation with the Imperial, he turned to his nearest warrior. “Kill him,” he said, pointing towards Tapel before changing his mind. “Actually, kill both of them. And the rest of the prisoners. The Arabians shall think twice before double crossing us again if they are taught the price of doing so.”

    He turned away, lost in thought, as his minions enacted their commander’s wish. His own visions of the perfect world promised by the future distracted him from the sounds of terrible butchery.
    Last edited by Sabbad; 02-10-2008 at 19:42.
    MY FICTION:
    Eoheran, A Hero's Death - The tale of an Eldar Ranger, set a mission on an Imperial world.
    Phanta Claws - Evil stirring in the Underhive of Necromunda.
    Perfect World - A Norse Champion of Chaos, fighting for his vision of utopia.
    Sithian's Jewel - A horror story told through Inquisitorial reports.

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