Contest January-February Short Story Contest Voting and Reading Thread

The theme was "Chaos Dwarfs/Chaos Dwarves". Please read all six pieces carefully before voting. You have TWO votes this round, but it will still be tough to narrow it down because we got an excellent set. You may or may not find this playlist thematically appropriate background music while reading.

If you spotted one or more typos or formatting error, please send me a private message with the ENTIRE correct story and not just the error portion. It's a lot easier for me to copy and paste a corrected version than to search out the specific error and manually correct it, in fact, I often create exciting new errors when I try that.

Spoiler: Story One: "The Dragon Isles archives - Condensed Chaos arrived"

The Dragon Isles archives - Condensed Chaos arrived

2382 IC, Sea of Dread, near the Dragon Isles​

In the middle of stretched out dark blue-green-ish waters of the Sea of Dread reside a couple of green overgrown isles. Like specks of green in a bucket of blue paint. The longer Gorzharr Flintcleaver stared at the growing shoreline and dense vegetation ahead of him the more anger flamed inside of him.
Even the air held paint-like aromas, a heavy smell of iron and lead filled his nostrils. Gorzharr was standing upon the deck of a giant floating engine of war, a ship built to conquer and bring home the spoils of war. Around him scurried several Goblin labourers and a few Orcs, getting the ship ready to land soon. Above him in the sky a rain of sparks caught by the wind were distributed all over the deck and around the ship. Remnants of a powerful magical shield that encapsulated the isles in front of them. The Sorcerer, Hazhkatur Ashmouth, countered it with his destructive magic spells and had been able to force an entry for the fleet to pass through.

+++++++

2382 IC, The Dragon Isles, overseeing the Sea of Dread​

In the middle of the island covering deep green jungle a pair of bright yellow eyes in a blue scaled face looked silently upon the specks of grey in the water in front of him. They grew bigger with the minute.
On top of the specks a plume of smoke is signaling the others behind it to follow. A rain of sparks fall on top and around them, as the magical barrier is broken. The dome that had protected his home for years and years.

+++++++

Gorzharr was told the stories of the Dragon Isles and how the Lizardmen had come from the Southlands. How they had taken over the Isles and created a magical barrier to keep all other species out.
In his opinion, which is the popular opinion among the Dawi, the Isles belong to the Chaos Dwarfs, gifted to them by the Father of Darkness. A mighty gift, full of resources. The mountains, the rich and old, very old ground would hold treasures unmatched.

+++++++

Xenal-Kekuil had been told the stories of the Condensed Chaos from the Dark lands. Lord Krazpet’optl, may the Old Ones watch over his soul, warned them time and time again for the ravaging drive and unending hunger for power that fueled these creatures. The magical barrier was put up to keep them out, to preserve nature and keep the Isles safe. It was the Old Ones’ will that the Lizardmen inhabited these isles.

+++++++

The fleet steered towards the only visible landing spot on the first island in front of them. “BRROUMGH!!!” A heavy rumble and loud growl filled the air as the Dreadquake Mortar on deck fired a shell at the jungle’s edge just next to the landing. Gorzharr’s ears rang with a high pitching sound. His hearing came back just as the ship landed at the island. More on instinct than by order the Chaos Dwarf warriors formed a formation and made ready to embark. Heavy burning vegetation, left of the landing, gave away the arrival of the Dawi and their intent.
Units of Hobgoblins were the first to enter the jungles, scout the way ahead and eliminate possible small dangers. Every few minutes one of the Hobgoblins returned to report to the Dwazi Sorcerer in charge of this expedition.
When no report was sent back the army knew which direction to expect danger and act accordingly, without remorse over the lost Hobgoblins.

While the reports kept coming the army took responsibility in unloading the digging equipment and machines. The work progressed like a well-oiled machine, hardened over time and precision honed by experience.
The Hobgoblins kept appearing from the tree line regularly. The interval of their appearances became longer and longer, meaning they made progress without much struggles.

+++++++

Overviewing the bay Xenal-Kekuil noticed multiple flashes of bright light on top the grey specks below. Objects hurled through the sky towards the shore accompanied by a visible shockwave of sound.
“BRROUMGH!!!” sounded loud through the dense jungle and hit the Lizard’s ears at the same time as the projectiles hit the coastal vegetation, engulfing it in flames.
The day he dreaded for ages had arrived. Xenal-Kekuil retreated from his position, back through the overgrown city. Duty called.

+++++++

Down at the coast the army organized itself straight towards the heart of the isle. No Hobgoblin had appeared for a while from that direction. Magma canon in front, the army started tracking the route the Hobgoblin scouts had taken. Searing heat went before them, burning a path through the jungle for the army to follow. Wildlife fled left and right.

+++++++

Dull footsteps sounded between the overgrown ziggurats, empty barracks and dried out spawning pools. Xenal-Kekuil ran to the western gates of the once thriving city. The spawning pools quieted down after the death of Lord Krazpet’optl, the city lost government and primal instincts took over all inhabitants. All Lizardmen were drawn to the jungle itself abandoning houses and temples. He himself would roam in the city’s confines hoping and praying to the Old Ones for a change.

He ran up the stairs at the left of the gate, up in the gatehouse to the top floor. Along the outside of the gatehouse a two feet wide enclosed channel was carved through the decorated stones. At the top of the channel the diameter narrowed to a two inch opening.
Just before he put his lips at the opening a thought slipped in his mind:

“Change has come.”

Xenal-Kekuil closed his eyes, breathed in and blew through the opening.

… to be continued

Spoiler: Story Two: "The Main Event"

The Main Event​

-----

The lights were dark, and anticipation grew with their absence. This was the event they had paid to witness.

For twenty seconds, there was no movement, no stirring that wasn’t the tangible energy in the air of eager excitement.

Then a sound. A low strumming of a bass guitar, playing out the famous beat of ‘The Chain’, best known as the theme of the televised Formula One Grand Prix. The lights flickered, and then focused on the entry ramp, revealing The Dark Fourth. The Saurus huffed, arms stretched into his trademark pose, playing up his appearance for the audience.

“World Heavyweight Champion, The Dark Fourth,” Scalenex called, his voice barely containing the noise of the crowd, “and listen to this place: he’s already won them.”

"The Dark Fourth promised that he would end the reign of the HWO," came the voice of NIGHTBRINGER. The heel commentator let his tone tell just what he thought of the promise of The Dark Fourth. "Stuff and nonsense. I tell you now, The Dark Fourth has been running his mouth these last few months. But you know what they say? Pride cometh before the fall. And he has a long fall tonight, here at Lustramania! There is no escape from Chaos. Chaos marks us all."

Scalenex cast a sideward glance at his co-commentator. “Yea, I haven’t heard that repeatedly all night,” he joked glibbly, hands steepled. “I think tonight might well have Chaos marking us with its failure.”

NIGHTBRINGER made to reply, but by now The Dark Fourth had reached the ring, his entry music blaring out the lyrics which promised that his opponent would ‘never break the chain’. The Saurus posed on the turnbuckle with his championship belt held aloft. The lights dimmed again. And then the music was swapped out for that of his opponent; an aggressive guitar riff to the track ‘Lightning Strikes Again’.

“And on his way to the ring, the Killer Angel himself!” NIGHTBRINGER couldn’t help but let his clear bias show. “Killer Angel is clearly one of the most intelligent of the LWF roster, when the Hashut World Order made their debut, he was quick to join the winning team. Hashut marks us all, and he recognised that.”

Scalenex rolled his eyes, watching as the skink adorned with the trappings of the HWO stalked towards the ring, followed closely by two Chaos Dwarfs.

“Killer Angel is accompanied to the ring by Boom Boom Worker and Labour Driver,” he announced for the benefit of those watching at home. “Normally not a good sign for The Dark Fourth, except The Red Devil (long may he ribbit) put a clause in the match’s terms. Any, and I mean any interference from the HWO will see them punished severely.”

“Bah,” NIGHTBRINGER snorted. “A feeble attempt to handicap the HWO. It’s as if The Dark Fourth knows he can’t win without going to daddy and asking for an unfair advantage.”

Scalenex paused, his scaled brow creased in confusion at what he had just heard, before then shaking his head. “Uh-huh… An unfair advantage in enforcing non-interference… sure…”

NIGHTBRINGER, apparently ignorant of Scalenex’s bemused glare, cheered as Killer Angel stood in the middle of the ring, hands lifted into the sign of Hashut. “Kick his ass! For Hashut!”

The stadium lights returned to normal, and the two superstars stood at opposite sides of the ring, eyes drilling into each other, glaring, their month-long feud finally coming to its explosive showdown.

“Remember, if Killer Angel loses this match, we will finally see the end of the HWO. No longer shall they infest the Lustrian wrestling Federation!”

The grumbling from NIGHTBRINGER suggested he wasn't happy with the reminder. “And yet the Skaven get to remain,” he complained. “Utter nonsense. Clear anti-Chaos Dwarf bias at play!”

Ding!

The moment the bell rang, Killer Angel rushed forward. He threw his forearm into Dark’s face. The Saurus took the strike and dropped to the ground, blinking. He recovered with a swift roll that put him back to his feet.

Angel was already moving again, rebounding off the ropes and swinging for a second strike.

Dark ducked, and was rewarded with the approving cheers of the audience.

As Angel came back in, Dark’s tail snapped into his sternum with enough force to knock the breath from him, and the skink doubled over. Dark caught him there, arm cinching around his neck, and fell backward.

Angel bounced off the mat face-first, limbs twitching before he sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself upright.

Dark stared, knees bent, muscles coiled. Angel hissed and threw himself forward into a flying clothesline. Unfortunately, for the Skink, Dark caught Angel. After a brief moment where he was forced to steady himself, he lifted and then slammed Angel to the mat. He was once again rewarded with the approving ovation of the crowd.

Dark stepped away from the prone Angel, one hand lifted to the air, while the other gestured to the audience, rewarding his fans with his attention. Unfortunately for him, his practice of hyping up his fans meant his attention was away from the two Chaos Dwarfs outside the ring.

Or it was, until the referee suddenly stormed to the ropes and leaned over, shouting and gesturing wildly at the pair. Dark turned to cast a glare at the two Chaos Dwarfs in silent warning.

But that didn’t stop it from costing Dark.

Something crashed into him from behind.

His body folded. Breath vanished in a strangled gasp as he dropped to the mat, the world shrinking to pain and noise.

“That’s disgusting!” Scalenex shouted, half out of his seat. “Right in front of the referee!”

“I imagine that Mrs Dark Fourth is going to be disappointed!” NIGHTBRINGER howled with laughter.

Angel pointed mockingly at Dark, then drew an imaginary line across his neck with his thumb, clearly relishing in the pain he had brought with that ‘strategic uppercut’. Meanwhile the referee dropped to one knee beside the champion, checking him as the crowd rained down indignant fury.

While he had the opening, Angel climbed the corner turnbuckle, pausing for a moment to taunt the audience as Dark lay motionless a moment longer than any of them liked. The booing only seemed to fuel him.

Finally atop the turnbuckle, his hands rose in the symbol of Hashut, and he leapt, twisting through the air in the move that had become his signature…

And then gagged when instead of a prone body, his gut was crushed by two knees pressing into his belly. He bounced once, then collapsed backward, clutching his stomach.

Both superstars lay on the mat, nursing their respective injuries. Whoever managed to fight past the pain first would have the advantage. Something Scalenex was quick to mention in his commentary. NIGHTBRINGER, on the other hand…

“Get up! Get up, Angel! Do not let Hashut down! You can’t fall here! Don’t let that overgrown bully win!”

Eventually, Dark got to his feet, teeth bared in silent fury. He stomped one foot against the mat. Once. Twice. Then his tail slapped the ground. But he did not yet move toward the still grounded Angel.

Killer Angel slowly picked himself to his feet, facing away from Dark. He took a deep breath, and moved his hands away from his bruised belly. Straightened his posture. Turned around.

Dark threw himself forward and speared himself into Angel, goring him into the mat.

Angel laid twitching, barely comprehending what had just happened. But he was not given time to recover, for Dark lifted him up and then whipped him toward the ropes.

Unbidden, Angel’s legs carried him forward, until he hit the ropes and bounced back toward Dark, who used the Skink’s momentum to lift him off the ground and overhead, body vertical.

“It’s the Dark Driver!” Scalenex screamed in eager anticipation.

Dark held Angel up, delayed the inevitable slam, in order to slowly turn on the spot, making sure the crowd, explosive in their delight, all got to see the moment from every angle. Finally, with a roar, he leapt up and pulled Angel down.

The Dark Driver was well named, for Angel was driven headfirst into the mat with all the power that The Dark Fourth could muster, bolstered by his jump. Angel’s body spasmed on the mat, eyes wide with pain.

Dark kipped up to his feet and held his arms up in his signature pose, roaring for the crowd, and then slammed himself down on the prone Skink.

The referee slid into position, arm already coming down for the first count.

“One!” the audience chanted.

“Two!”

There was no ‘three’. Dark suddenly slid off of Angel, not of his own power. With a bellow, he roared at the Chaos Dwarf who had grabbed and pulled him off of Angel by the tail. The referee hesitated, looking at Labour Driver, but the tusked Dwarf held his hands up in a gesture of confusion and peace.

“That no-good, rotten, ne’er do well…” Scalenx ranted with clear upset at the injustice. “That was a clear violation of the non-interference clause. Ref: call that disqualification!”

As ever, NIGHTBRINGER was quick to defend the Hashut World Order of any wrongdoing. “Don’t go blaming the Chaos Dwarfs for The Dark Fourth’s clear ego. If The Dark Fourth had not decided he needed to showboat, he would have won!”

Unfortunately, because the referee had not seen the blatant interference, he did not call for the bell to ring.

While both Dark and the referee focused on the clearly-not-innocent Labour Driver, Boom Boom Worker slid a steel chair into the ring.

Angel stood, unsteady on his feet, no doubt still feeling the effect of the Dark Driver, but he managed to pick up the chair and readied himself. Feet planted, chair raised, ready to come down and crack Dark’s skull.

Dark snarled at Labour one last time and turned around. Whether it was luck, or Angel seeing double from the head blow, he was able to backstep, escaped the strike that would have downed him.

There was a brief pause, broken only by the appreciative cheering of the crowd as they realised their favourite had not been brought low by such a cheap move.

Angel lifted the chair again. Dark reacted quicker though, and leapt into a dropkick. Feet connected with the chair as it was coming up and drove it backward into Angel’s head.

The Skink flew back, hitting the mat with no grace, no attempt to soften the fall. Eyes shut. His attempt to cheat out a win had backfired so badly, it had finished the job that the Dark Driver had started.

Dark posed for the crowd one last time, stalking towards the unconscious form.

This moment, the Chaos Dwarfs must have realised that they had lost, that there was no recovery. Not now. So they gave up all pretence.

Into the ring came Boom Boom, holding the championship belt. Dark turned to face the Chaos Dwarf, lip curled. Ducked the running strike, but ended up taking a flying kick from Labour.

The bell rang at the referee’s call, but the music didn’t start, not while there was still action in the square ring. The moment the bell rang, the referee scampered out of the ring, clearly having no desire to get caught in the following violence.

Dark tried to pick himself up, but Boom Boom slammed the title belt down on him before he could get his feet beneath him. And then Labour stomped down in a furious barrage.

“Of all the disgusting acts!” Scalenex ranted.

To his credit, while he was chuckling, NIGHTBRINGER at least had the sense to not try to excuse the poor sportsmanship on display, content to let the far more impartial commentator work himself up.

“Wait, running down the ramp!” Scalenex paused his tirade to note. “Is that…?”

“It’s Imrahil!” NIGHTBRINGER identified the Saurus sprinting down toward the ring.

The newly arrived Imrahil slid into the ring and drove his elbow into the nearest Chaos Dwarf. Boom Boom wasn’t even given time to realise that there was somebody new in the ring, one moment he was swinging Dark’s championship belt like a whip, the next he was face down on the mat with a bruise forming on his head.

Labour panicked as he identified Imrahil. His panic did little to save him from the Imperial Suplex that Imrahil hit him with. Every time one of the two Chaos Dwarfs tried to regain their footing, Imrahil was quick to put them down once again. Eventually, Dark managed to get back to his feet. He stared at Imrahil for a long moment, as if trying to decide if the other Saurus was truly his ally.

The choice was made when Boom Boom and Labour both charged, only for both Imrahil and Dark to grab the pair in their respective signature moves. The ring shook with the force of the twin impacts, and finally both Chaos Dwarfs were left without any fight remaining.

At that moment, the bass solo from ‘The Chain’ played through the speakers in the stadium, barely heard over the approving screams of the audience as the two crowd favourites seemed to unite.

Angel slowly picked himself up, having regained his consciousness. Just in time for both Saurus to grab him by the neck and lift, slamming him back down with a double chokeslam.

“There we have it!” Scalenex cried out. “The Dark Fourth has retained his championship! And with Killer Angel’s defeat, the Red Devil (long may he ribbit) will enforce the removal of the Hashut World Order. Truly an auspicious day for the LWF!”

“You mean a dark day,” NIGHTBRINGER huffed. “But mark my words, Hashut marks us all! This is not the end!”

“We shall see. But this marks a turning point. The Dark Fourth and Imrahil, working together… we shall soon see what will come of this.”

“Tune in for this Wednesday’s TailWhip. We shall see if this is the start of a new alliance, or just a moment of convenience.”

“I’ve been good ol’ Scalenex!”

“And I have been the NIGHTBRINGER!”

“Good night!”

======

Spoiler: Story Three: "Within the Forge"

Within the Forge

The air of the forge was acrid. The sticky stench of poisoned ash clung cruelly to everything it could reach. The forge itself radiated infernal heat that snarled and twisted the already vile air into shimmering waves. If the Daemonsmith was bothered by the air or the heat, he gave little sign as he studied again the precious metal taken from the distant lands of the dead old gods.

There was a rattling rasp from his chained prisoner, of whom the poison of the air did visibly affect. It was a Skink, one who had led a foolhardy attack across continents to reclaim what the Dawi Zharr had wrested from their weak claws. Feathered ornamentation and trappings of gold and arcane might had been stripped away. A band of dark iron covered in sigils to sever one’s connection to the Winds of Magic had been cruelly bonded to the Skink’s wrist, the Daemonsmith having made sure it was still hot from the furnace for that.

“Well, my little friend?” the Daemonsmith laughed in response to the rasp of the prisoner, a collection of dark metal wind chimes caught his voice and the souls and daemons bound to them echoed back his words in every conceivable language, albeit with the edge of the wail of the damned. “Is my humble forge not to your liking? Dear Ikkred’s home not as pampered as a soft scaled whelp like you would be used to?”

The Skink hissed back and the chimes echoed back the response.

Ikkred’s tusked smile grew larger and nastier at the show of defiance, and he lifted what appeared to be a long golden spear coated in gems and glyphs of the Old Ones.

“This was what you thought you could reclaim, hm?” his glowering red eyes darting from the arcane relic to the chained Skink. “I quite agree, it is…exquisite for all its unnecessary ornamentation…whoever, no…whatever crafted this was a master of their craft. The power within this pretty thing could sunder cities…or much…much more…”

The Skink glared with a deep venomous hatred but did not reply.

The Daemonsmith shrugged.

“Regardless, the means to use such a weapon is beyond any of my kin…”

The Skink began to hiss a response but the Chaos Dwarf spat a wad of sickly saliva to the ground and stopped the prisoner short.

“You think me that much of a fool? That I would keep you alive to torture the knowledge from you? I know well of your weak-scaled kind that you would sooner die from any agonies I or my torturers could inflict than tell me what I wanted.” He wagged a heavily gloved finger, “besides, I very much doubt you or your kin even know how to truly unlock this weapon. You are children left in the dark, your parents having abandoned you. Where your kind scrabble to keep half-remembered plans and edifices of your parents…my kind moved forwards. That is why your realm will crumble and fall and why mine will endure and will rise.”

He turned away, his legs stiff from petrification that the curse of his sorcery wrought upon all of his kind, and signalled to his silent armoured guards.

“No, my little guest,” he chuckled, “I wanted you to witness me improve upon your Old Ones’ legacy, to unlock the power for the use by the Dawi Zhar…or more accurately…for me.”

Nine robed and blank iron masked acolytes dragged in nine chained prisoners of a myriad of races of the Old World. Ikkred moved to each one, grumbling in a foul tongue that even the infernal chimes would not translate. To each prisoner, the Daemonsmith drew a bead of blood with a small cruel blade of obsidian and with it daubed a sigil upon the face plates of each acolyte. Each sigil seemed to catch fire, a burning hue of many colours. As the last acolyte was anointed, Ikkred moved back to his dais, the Skink prisoner shivered and sweated as the furnace grew both uncomfortably cold and hot at the same time. The grumbling of the Daemonsmith’s words turned from a growl and into shout. As one the acolytes raised rune-cursed knives and as the Daemonsmith howled the last syllables, a final intonement to Hashut, they brought their knives down.

All light within the forge was extinguished at once, an unnatural blackness that tore at reality. A cackle came from the dark, then the sound of sobbing, then a cry of fury, a sigh of love, and more and more until the forge was a surging rush of conflicting sound. A wall of noise that tore at the mind and at the soul.

Then silence.

One by one the lights within the forge, natural or not, reignited. Ikkred stood, the Lustrian relic held aloft and surrounded by the steaming corpses of the sacrifices. A nimbus of foul energy swirled about the golden spear, the Daemonsmith’s free gloved hand seemingly weaving and twisting the essence of the Daemon. Slowly, the energy flowed into the device of the Old Ones and each of the inlaid precious stones began to glow with an internal light.

Ikkred’s glowering eyes turned to the chained Skink, a gleam of savage triumph playing across them. The relic shook suddenly and the Daemonsmith’s air of victory turned into a deep frown. From the Old One device came a keening wail as the Daemonic essence was burned away and utterly extinguished. The precious stones turned dark once more and the artefact became inert in Ikkred’s grasp, its power remained locked within and beyond his reach.

The Skink let out a hissing sound that Ikkred recognised as laughter.

“You fool…” the Skink spoke, the chimes swirling its words into a hundred tongues, “you are slaves to darkness and your freedom…your grasping for power will always remain out of reach. Slave of a slave.”

The Daemonsmith’s jaw worked, granite-like teeth snarling across each other. Slowly he placed the golden rod back to the anvil. As the masked acolytes dragged the corpses of the sacrifices from the forge, Ikkred stood. Thoughts and plans swirling and connecting in his dark mind. Stiffly he turned and the anger in his eyes was eclipsed by the cruel smile on his lips.

He appraised his prisoner and gave a laugh like the crumbling of a castle.

“That remains to be seen, my little guest.”

Spoiler: Story Four: "Elegy"

Elegy
​

The avenue bisected the immense park, landscaped as an English lawn. Occasionally, one could find benches to rest or, more often, lose in memories, while statues of angels with compassionate faces gazed silently at the horizon.
The evergreen hedges, regularly clipped, enclosed small gardens where only the flowers that adorned the gravestones bloomed.
The tops of the cypress trees swayed faintly, tickled by the light breeze from distant fans. In the distance, beyond the glass-steel dome that covered the complex, the city's skyscrapers could be seen, partially shrouded in haze; today the smog had an unusual orange hue.
The old man walked slowly along the tree-lined avenue, his polished leather shoes crunching on the gravel. His face was thoughtful, almost tired, but anyone would have recognized it as First Senator Brunner.

It was well known that Brunner left the Senate Citadel every day; it was also well known that, for security reasons, often only holoclones left.
A bishop was also present... Brunner isn't particularly religious, but then again, he knows a lot of people.
Brunner has always loved the cemetery, he finds the sense of sadness it conveys appropriate.
The only cheerful note is the delicate chirping of larks, reproduced by the micro-speakers camouflaged among the trees.

The cemetery is almost empty today. Brunner smiles sadly: he expected nothing diverse, given how things were going. Even those few visitors have other concerns besides caring for their loved ones.
A man is watching the latest special edition of the video news on his wrist TV. He's turned the volume up so high that Brunner can hear the announcer's words.
"...it appears that negotiations have been definitively broken off. After the debate in the Senate and the grave declarations of the Opposition, numerous riots have erupted in the capital, promptly quelled by the intervention of the Guard. The Senate spokesman strongly condemns the demonstrators' excesses, which would have..."

The speaker's voice faded into the distance, repeating the censored version that Brunner already knew. State officials could admit that some "troublemakers" had attempted to storm some administrative buildings, but not that armored AV4s had fired at the crowd at point-blank range.
It didn't really matter: if anyone still believed the official reports, they would realize the truth when the mercenary militias promised by the Landlords would have arrived to support the Government's course of action. After all, the army might not be reliable when some soldiers share the rebels' views.

Lost in thought, the Senator suddenly realized he had reached the Chapels’ area. The familiar shape of the small black marble building welcomed him. He looked bitterly at the "Brunner Family" that decorated the architrave.
"I am the last of my family. No one will come to speak to me when I'm gone; besides, what could I possibly tell them? That I betrayed my people, to satisfy my selfishness?"

The cold, dry air of the tomb made him shiver for a moment, while the sensors recognized him and turned on the soft lights, illuminating the stairs leading down to the crypt. Twelve steps lead to a small room; the bishop stops halfway up the stairs.
His parents rest near the entrance, and Brunner touches their photos with his hand, sending them a silent greeting. Their memory no longer hurts, and it's not for them that he's here.
He heads to the back of the room, where there are two cubicles. One is empty. Brunner presses a button on the control panel, and a section of the wall slides away, revealing the metal frame of a helmet with cables connecting it to the primary system, a feature only present in the earliest models. He puts it on, letting the sensors adapt, waiting for the system to receive the necessary inputs… finally he gives the command.
"Activate memory banks".

An image blossoms before him, flickering for a moment, fading at times. She's a woman in her late 60s, with curly blonde hair, now verging on white. She's wearing a white lace shirt, and over it a sweater she'd hand-sewn one distant autumn.
She looks at him and smiles, two dimples barely visible on her cheeks, while small wrinkles form near her eyes, and greets him:
"Hi, Joseph"
and he replies, "Hi, Anne," and then, "You're beautiful."


“So, is it him? You've been monitoring him with the bioscanner since he entered the cemetery. How long will it take?”
The man is on the roof of a building, half-hidden by some pylons, wearing an old pair of thermographic goggles of the army. He has a semi-automatic assault rifle slung over his shoulder, and observes the cemetery dome, half a kilometer away.
The other guy, crouched behind a low wall, is wearing a faded black T-shirt with a picture of a fantasy dwarf in armor, wearing a ridiculously tall hat, advancing with a blood-stained axe bearing the words "I BRING CHAOS" written underneath.

He's busy fiddling with the console of some sort of radar screen. Green and red LEDs flash, and screens of numbers change continuously on one side of the dial. Then the numbers stop.
Chaos Dwarf grins like a wolf.
“Gotcha! The vital signs match, it's the real Brunner. The information was accurate.”
Goggles nods and turns on his transmitter. “All teams, green light, repeat: green light. We're moving.”


He'd like to touch her, but he knows it would be a painfully disappointing experience. When he tried, shortly after her death, he'd felt only a slight contrast, like a gust of wind; the program isn't capable of simulating tactile sensations realistically enough.
"Sorry I haven't been around much lately. I've been very busy."
"Ah, I see. I hope you've missed me at least a little."
("A little" is inadequate, Anne. "terribly" would be more appropriate.)
“Honey, can I ask you something a little silly? Would you wear the flowered dress?”
The figure blurs for a moment as the program processes the new configuration. Anne reappears in a light, delicately colored dress.
“You look lovely. I’ve always loved that dress.”
She shakes her head, sitting down next to him.
“You’re a liar: you never really cared about my clothes. Thanks though, you’re a gallant liar.”

For a few moments they sit without saying a word. He has so much to say to her, but he doesn't know where to begin. It's Anne who breaks the silence. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"It's your job, right? You always frown when you have problems."
He's always amazed at how his wife reads him like an open book. Of course, he knows that the visual simulation has nothing of Anne's perceptiveness and that, more simply, the sensors detect his state of distress, and the program elaborates the most appropriate response.
He knows this, but he prefers to believe that, buried in the memory banks, she hears him and can understand him.

“Things are getting ugly: the people can no longer tolerate the tyranny of the Landlords' Guilds, and with reasons. They control our economy, they've got their hands on our entire political and legislative system, and soon they'll be aiming for the military leadership. God help us, they want to restore the ancient noble rights of the Houses.”
“History has taught them nothing… you can push the limits almost to the breaking point, but you can't go any further. The popular deputies proposed an amendment to ease the pressure. The Senate rejected it.”
“But how come, Joseph? You're the First Senator; your opinion should have carried weight.”
“The Senate rejected it unanimously, Anne. I voted against it, too.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “But Joseph, how… how could you? You've always been on people's side. You were their strongest hope in the Senate; you could never tolerate the arrogance of the Landlords. I don't… why?”
“I'm old, Anne. I'm tired of fighting.”

“Joseph, this is the biggest nonsense I've ever heard you say. Don't come spouting this nonsense and expect me to buy it. You've dedicated your entire life to the country, following the ideals of the Old Republic; I've never seen you compromise against your conscience, and now you come telling me you're tired? You've sacrificed your time and health for your job. Oh God, Joseph: you sacrificed us too…”
“Do you know it, right? In 30 years we've never taken more than a week's vacation, even that interrupted by calls. 30 years of waking up alone because you'd gone to work. Even on Sundays: you were already up, sitting at your desk. I loved you for who you were, even though it was difficult, and now I have the right to know why you voted against that amendment, spitting on everything you believed in.”

Brunner sighs, thinking back to all the opportunities he had postponed, until Anne's death had brought home to him the incontrovertible fact that his wife was no longer there, that the eternal postponement had been just a mockery, and that the lost time could only be recovered thanks to a memory program.

“Do you know why you always found me up at my desk on Sunday mornings? Because through the open door I watched you sleep. I didn't want to wake you just because I was used to getting up before six. So I watched you, your face relaxed, your hair loose on the pillow, while the morning light streamed through the window. And finally you woke up, disturbed by the sun's rays, blinking and shielding your eyes with your hand; then you saw me and smiled.”
“I've always loved my job, but I've always loved you too. If I'd voted for the amendment, nothing would have changed. Some would have followed me, but the Senate's stance was against it: the proposals would have been rejected, there would have been riots anyway, the military would have fired on the crowd, and the police would have arrested the dissidents. Opposing it would have meant fleeing and leaving the capital. Leaving you. I don't want to lose you again to politics, and the only way I could stay close to you was to side with the Landlords.”

Anne looks at him sweetly, and he realizes she's no longer angry.

Then, from outside, comes the sound of a loud explosion.

Brunner turns toward the entrance; on the stairs, the bishop has stiffened, and has put a hand to his right ear.
"What's happening, Thomas?"
The priest drops his holo-camouflage cape. In its place stands a massive, hard-eyed man wearing special forces insignia, a helmet, a flak jacket, and a heavy machine gun.
“We're under attack, Senator. I'm going outside to see what the situation is. Get ready, we may have to leave quickly.”
The soldier turns and runs up the stairs, not noticing Brunner's fleeting smile.

“You knew.”

Brunner turns back to the image of his wife.
“You’re right, honey. I leaked the information that I was coming here today. You see, Thomas is a good guy, but he’s very scrupulous, and he wouldn’t have let me do what I came for.”
As Anne looks at him curiously, he slips his hand into his inside jacket pocket.


The cemetery's dome had shattered. The roar of automatic weapons drowned out the screams of the wounded and the visitors fleeing haphazardly; the lawns were pockmarked with craters created by heavy plasma mortar fire. Smoke bombs covered the line of attackers, who, arranged in a semicircle, converged on the crypts.
Thomas, crouched behind a gravestone, cursed ferociously; if the helmet visor was to be believed, only two other men of his escort remained alive.
Angrily, he aimed a burst of machine gun fire at a speeder bike trying to outflank his position. The craft plummeted, crashing with a satisfying explosion.
He looked around for other targets, but before he could do anything, an armored round tore through his cover like tissue paper, hitting him squarely.

The shooting had stopped. At the crypt's entrance, two figures stood out against the light, descending the stairs and searching for their target. The senator stood perfectly still, still wearing his helmet, his gaze steady and a faint smile on his lips.
"First Senator Brunner, I place you under arrest in the name of the Democratic Forces. Consider yourself our political prisoner, and follow us."
The seated figure showed no sign of interest.

Goggles snorted dryly and moved forward: "Senator, I asked nicely, but if you don't make up your mind, then..."
Chaos Dwarf placed a hand on the other's shoulder: "Wait… look there.”
A sort of flat box was attached to the memory system's control panel, with flashing red lights and a pair of connectors connected serially to the helmet's cables.
“What the...”
“An Orpheus processor. This bastard shorted the system.”

For a moment, silence reigns in the crypt as Goggles weighs the implications.
"Can we unplug him?"
"No, there's a reason they're illegal. His brain is now directly connected to the database: if we turn off the system or try to disconnect him, he'll end up in a coma. Brunner is lost; the Orpheus' stimulators will keep him alive for a month, then he'll die of starvation."
Goggles shakes his head, bitterly; then he pushes Chaos Dwarf toward the stairs.
"Let's get out of here: the rescue teams will arrive in a bunch of minutes, and if they find us still here they'll slice us to pieces."

“Joseph, you're a stupid. Why did you do that?”
He looks into her eyes and smiles, taking her hand. Now he can feel her smooth skin, she's made of flesh and bone again.
“Because I love you,” and then he kisses her, softly.

Outside, the birds can be heard chirping.

Spoiler: Story Five: "Prophecies"

Prophecies


Sorcerer Vamnick lived his life around a prophecy he received from a vision straight from Hashut.

“One day, stone will take your life.”

This was not exactly a shocking revelation. The power of Chaos comes with a price, and in the case of Hashut’s greatest followers, this price is usually predictable unlike the random mutations and madness of Nurgle, Slaanesh, Khorne, and Tzeentch.

Over time, miscasts will gradually turn a Chaos Dwarf’s body into stone bit by bit until they are essentially statue. Sorcerers can usually retain function and mobility till the end with magical prosthetics, but this only forestalls their petrification, not prevents it.


But for most Chaos Dwarf sorcerers, petrification was not inevitable. Vamnick knew that many Sorcerer Priests died in battle against Hashut’s many enemies. Others were slain by other Chaos Dwarves in internal disputes. Rather than fight against Fate and try to avert the prophecy, Vamnick was bolstered by the prophecy, planning his decisions around it.

Vamnick knew that he would eventually stone his way back to Hashut but until then, the Prophecy meant that he would not fall to an enemy’s blade or a rival’s dagger. He didn’t avoid magic entirely, but he was very cautious with it. Conversely, he took many risks in all other aspects of his life.

Rather than hide behind a legion of Ironsworn, Vamnick usually lea armies from the front, magical axe in hand. He took many chances in internal politics too knowing that even if he failed, his life wouldn’t be put in danger. At a relatively young age, he was commanding a mighty army with a very high success rate in battle, not only did he never lose a battle, but he rarely took heavy losses.

Just as he was careful with his magic, he was careful with his soldiers and artillery. He was not totally averse to risk, but he was careful and methodical managing to do more with less. He was careful not to waste the lives of his men and beasts. He was careful not to waste ammo. He didn’t even waste the lives of hobgoblins, at least relative to other sorcerer priests.

Yes, he’d send a hundred hobgoblins to save one dwarf, but that didn’t execute hobgoblins for minor failures like some other Chaos Dwarves did. That would be inefficient. Vamnick was uncommonly good with logistics as well.

And for all his achievements, Vamnick’s body was still fully flesh except for his petrified toes. He would have many more accomplishments in Hashut’s name before petrification would claim his life, at which point he would be welcomed with honor into Hashut’s realm and celebrated by the Chaos Dwarves that came after him as the greatest sorcerer prophet the world had ever seen.



He had crushed many human and greenskin armies in the Badlands with minimal losses. He even fought a few odder foes. Elves, Beastmen, and Skaven, always victorious.

Now Vamnick faced his oddest foe yet. A great host of Lizardmen was in the Borderlands, led by one of the magic wielding toads. His superiors said they were called “Slann” and their magic surpassed that of the mightiest elf wizards.


Vamnick superiors didn’t know why the Lizardmen were in the Chaos Dwarves’ backyard but they wanted them gone…or at least subjugated. Vamnick was told that the lizards had to die, but if some of Vamnick was able to capture some Lizardmen warriors, their magical items, and/or the relatively intact corpse of a Slann, his superiors could learn much and this would reflect well on Vamnick’s future advancement.

It’s been a long time since the Chaos Dwarfs had a large engagement with the Lizardmen, but the followers of Hashut are nothing but meticulous. They always took copious notes from every battle. Vamnick would not be going in blind.

Given how ancient the lizards were, they didn’t change their weapons and tactics very fast. Vamnick poured through volumes of old lore on previous battles to figure out what the Lizardmen and their dinosaurs could or couldn’t do and planned accordingly.


Vamnick decided to try to lure the Lizards to a series of rocky outcroppings and cliffsides. Relatively narrow pathways would hamper the lizard’s mobility and especially hamper the mobility of their larger beasts. The narrow confines would force them to engage in places where they would fall relatively easy to target with artillery.

Weeks later, Vamnick was able to set up the battlefield more or less as he wished, having hobgoblins skirmish with the smaller Lizards and fall back with losses gradually pulling the larger Lizardmen army into the rocky canyon he was hoping for. Towards the end he had to include a few dwarves and centaurs in the expeditionary force to make the feigned retreats more convincing, but he managed to not lose too many men in the sorties.

But soon the trap would snap shut.


Less than half of Vamnick’s forces were clearly visible. All of the artillery and some of soldiers were under camouflage nets. Only when the Saurus regiments had caught up with the Skinks did Vamnick signal his troops to remove the nets and engage in full.

Even with the prophecy that he would die by stone, not a magical duel, Vamnick wasn’t eager to get too close to a Slann. The Slann could do horrible things to him even if the Slann couldn’t slay him outright, among other things, it could accelerate his petrification and take decades off his lifespan. Vamnick stayed at a high point near a Dreadquake Mortar where he could see the whole battle and direct events.

A mishap with the Dreadquake Mortar could not kill Vamnick, but Vamnick could still be scarred and maimed by lava, so he wore a Firebane Gem for protection, just in case.

As the skirmishers of both sides met each other, one of the Skinks launched a fireball and incinerated a unit of Hobgoblin outriders. Not surprising. Vamnick knew that Slann could channel spells through their Skink lackeys. Fireball was an odd opening spell against an army with fire resistant armor, but Hobgoblins had no special protection against fire, so dabbling in Fire magic was not a horrible choice on the Slann’s part.

Vamnick’s artillery belched its own fiery blasts, killing far more soldiers than the Slann’s fire spell could dream of accomplishing. A few Skinks panicked and fled, but the bulk of the Lizardmen line advanced unimpeded. This was to be expected. The Lizardmen do not retreat easily.

Vamnick readied his mana to dispel the Slann’s next spell aimed at the frontline dwarf warriors, but was caught off guard when the Winds of Magic blew hot and fiery yet again. The spell known as Piercing Bolts of Burning slipped past Vamnick’s attempt to dispel it and ripped across several Ironsworn warriors. There were a few casualties, but not many. This was not an optimal spell for battle hardened dwarves wearing fire resistant armor.

For most Ironsworn, enduring second degree burns was just another Tuesday. They didn’t stop their advance towards the Temple Guard. But just before the Temple Guard and the Ironsworn connected, a cloak of flames enveloped the Temple Guard protectively.

Would this impede the Chaos Dwarfs? Yes…but not by much.

Vamnick knew that the Slann can use almost any magic known to the Forces of Order, but not all at once. Slann always prepare a specific subset of magic before a battle. The Slann wasn’t just dabbling in Fire Magic, it was focusing on it exclusively. This was probably the least effective magic the toad-like wizard could have chosen. Had Vamnick known this, he would have brought more K’daai, but he had earlier decided they would be less ideal in this relatively confined space. No matter.

The Slann must have been expecting to fight trolls and not Chaos Dwarves or the Slann was not as wise as they reputed to be. Though to the Slann’s credit, he was able to dispel the magic that Vamnick attempted to casted. Though the dwarf sorcerer was using his mana rather conservatively to avoid a miscast and his mightiest spells had a relatively short range. Perhaps it was a mistake to hang back with the artillery?

With the Firebane Gem and the Prophecy as his shield, Vamnick was functionally invincible in this battle. A large dinosaur might be able to injure them, but most of them had been locked out of the canyon by Vamnick’s superior army maneuvering or had been slain or crippled by the fires of Hashut manifested through the Chaos’ Dwarf’s mighty artillery.

Vamnick left the artillery line and entered the masses of infantry ordering his men to make men as he methodically pushed his way towards the fire “enhanced” Temple Guard.

The supposedly elite Saurus warriors guarding the Slann were barely holding their own against Vamnick’s midlevel soldiers, they would be no match for Vamnick and his magic axe. Vamnick had several of his own units to march through first though.

As Vamnick marched forward, he finally managed to dissipate one of the Slann’s spells, the spell the humans call “The Flaming Sword of Rhuin”. Not a problem to Vamnick personally, but it would enable the Temple Guard to kill his men much easier. That could not be allowed. That would be an inefficient use of resources.

Vamnick was still one block of infantry behind the front lines. The Slann was using a Skink as his focal point for casting, and was attempting to cast a large fireball. Not at one of the main units, but at the recently rallied remnants of a battered unit of Hobgoblin outriders, there were only four left.

Why waste such a mighty spell at such an insignificant target? So much for the supposed mental prowess of the Slann. Vamnick didn’t even bother trying to dispel the Fireball as he marshalled his own magic to cast an Ash Storm upon the Temple Guard.

The four Hobgoblins and their mounts were vaporized, but that was not important. The Temple Guard were about to significantly weakened when Vamnick was distracted by a rumbling sound. The Hobgoblins had been standing near a loose rocky outcropping. The concussive blast of the Fireball dislodged enough stones to trigger an avalanche which thundered down the hillside burying Vamnick and the soldiers around him.

Stone claimed his life. His body was mashed to a pulp, except for his toes.


There was now a massive pile of stones and a cloud of dust separating the Lizardmen from two thirds of the Chaos Dwarf army.

Tokorel the Slann ordered his soldiers to wipe out whatever was left on their side of the rocks and then withdraw. The rocks and dust would screen them from enemy artillery fire but also make it prohibitively difficult to attack their artillery line. The mission had been accomplished.

Vamnick’s dreams of glory was no idle fantasy. The Slann Council foresaw that left unchecked, Vamnick would have eventually rose to command all the Chaos Dwarf forces in the Badlands region and would indeed have become the greatest general the Chaos Dwarves had ever seen, bringing the whole region to their knees, eventually threatening the Empire of Man.

Without Vamnick’s leadership collectively forcing the Chaos Dwarves to act more efficiently, the Chaos Dwarves top echelons would vacillate between overly cautious and overly reckless, little more than a nuisance to the Great Plan. At least for the next two hundred years. Beyond this, projections into the future of the Chaos Dwarves were fuzzy.

Tokorel would shift to Life magic to help his army recuperate. The Slann’s next target was the Roaring Hand Orc Tribe led by War Boss Torgan. Tokorel foresaw the Lore of Death would be useful in this battle.

Killing Warboss Torgan would weaken the orcs, but the true threat was Big Boss Wakgut. Wakgut was currently theright hand lieutenant of Torgan and the leader of the tribe’s “Boar Boyz”. Wakgut was destined to eventually become a War Boss of great power and skill building up a mighty Waaagh! That could threaten both the Order aligned Dwarves and the Empire of Man.

Tokorel ordered his commanders to kill every orc boar rider they found just to be safe. Killing the other orcs was good but not required. That should keep the Orcs from amassing a largescale Waaagh! For at least for several decades.

Spoiler: Story Six: "The Hatching"

The hatching

Thewok, Itza's most experienced cold one wrangler, felt a familiar glow as he gazed at the clutch of eggs. There were more than a dozen of them, all healthy-looking, carefully arranged and swaddled over hot stones, and they were almost ready. In a day or two, the first of a new generation of vicious cold-blooded stallions would hatch, complete with razor-sharp teeth and claws, ready to honour the Old Ones and carry the lizardmen into glorious battle against their many enemies.

Thewok was an old skink who had been training dinosaurs for too many cycles to count, and he hadn't been so pleased with a clutch for a long time. His other chores finished for the day, he simply stood and watched the eggs, indulging in the glow of pride and anticipation, until the sun began to sink. As night fell, Itza sank into slumber, and Thewok grudgingly left the stables to rest in his quarters, looking forward to returning at first light.

Several hours later, in the stillness of the night, a dark shape moved swiftly and silently towards the empty stables, using shadows to avoid detection by the few guardians stationed in the outer parts of the city. The figure hurried into the building, eliciting a few yaps and screeches from the drowsy cold ones within. There was a strange flash of purple light, and the animals' complaints stopped abruptly.

The night seemed to hold its breath. Even the nighttime chirping of insects had stilled. At last, another flash could be seen through the windows - lights that were brightest in the egg nursery. Vivid blues, pinks and much weirder colours swirled and flashed within a growing miasma of foul fumes, and a low voice could be heard chanting in a discordant, crackling language. Finally, the lights and sounds faded, and night resumed its natural darkness. The jungle insects began to chirp again.

The next morning, Thewok trotted excitedly back to inspect the eggs he had left the previous evening. Arriving in the nursery, however, he gave a cry of dismay. The beautiful eggs were all broken. and not only that - they had been twisted and cracked by something unimaginably wicked. Bits of scorched shell littered the room, with awful writhing sigils burned into the walls. Some of the remains were tainted by glowing ichor and ugly-smelling goo. Despite his revulsion, Thewok looked closer. The eggs were destroyed - but their contents were missing. Had the cold ones hatched after all? Or something... else?

Thewok froze at a hissing sound behind him. He didn't dare turn to look. The sound was not just animal but monstrous - several creatures uttering a malicious, cruel growling that sounded almost nothing like ordinary dinosaurs. On instinct, he fled back into the stables, the sound of the bloodthirsty monsters chasing close behind him.

They were so fast, they would catch him any moment - but up ahead were the doors back into the city where help could be found. Thewok put on a burst of speed - only to stop dead at a high-pitched shrieking, just as monstrous, uttered by something up in the shadows ahead.

"Clever...things," Thewok muttered, as he realised he was cornered. He stumbled and fell back as the creatures approached from both directions. In the dim lights he saw them - they were monsters, indeed: something like cold ones, but deformed and mutated by unnatural magics, bright colours shifting over their scales, noxious pink gases escaping from their mouths.

"Oh gods," Thewok cried. "They're so...cute!"
***

At the High Temple of Itza, the sublime and terrible form of a Mage-Priest inspected a prisoner. With its robes removed and magic stripped away, the captive was a pathetic sight. It might have been human once, patches of pale warmblood skin showing among the wobbly kaleidoscopic growths and stranger animal features.

"You are a servant of Chaos," the Mage-Priest intoned, only a tiny fraction of its dizzying consciousness present in the room. "You thought you could corrupt the First City of the Old Ones. Now you shall be cleansed and destroyed."

"I am but one of the myriad schemes of the great god of Change!" the prisoner chittered. "Chaos shall triumph in the end!"

"You cast foul spells upon unhatched cold ones," the slann spoke atop its placidly floating seat, as if it had not heard the Chaos acolyte. "Are we to understand you intended to transform them into creatures of Chaos?"

"New servants for my master, here in the enemy's heart! Hail Tzeentch!"

"I comprehend you, in your vileness. But did you intend for ...this?"

The Mage-Priest gestured a flabby amphibian hand towards the figure of Thewok. In his arms, the skink clutched a dozen gibbering former cold ones, fume-breathing, colour-shifting, utterly depraved and devoted to the destruction of order - and none of them more than six inches long. They were trying their best to attack, slaughter and disembowel the stablemaster, but their tiny teeth couldn't even puncture his reptilian hide.

The thrall of the god of Change watched them uneasily.

"The mutations and gifts granted by the great god are unpredictable," the prisoner croaked, hesitantly. "But eventually the plot will come to fruition! Just as planned!"

"Your Chaos corruption appears to have activated a form of extreme dwarfism," the slann mused. "Not even the Changer of Ways could have a plan for that."

"Praise the change! Hail Tzeentch!" the Chaos minion continued, but it didn't sound entirely sure.

"Thus does Chaos contain the seeds of its own undoing. Burn this wretch and scatter the ashes," the Mage-Priest commanded the temple guardians. "Now we must decide what to do with these dwarf changelings."

"If it please you, your Eminence," Thewok spoke up. "They aren't exactly what I was hoping for, but I've come to care for the little blighters. Perhaps you might allow me to keep them. They could help to keep the rats out of the stables."

"I suspect the rats may be too much for them," the Mage-Priest replied. "But since they appear harmless, I leave them to you. Now be gone, for I must return to more serious matters."

 

Space reserved for author identities

 

YES!

this battle will be legendary!