Chapter 527
Boltthrower vividly recalled the sting of pity he’d felt then, witnessing his brethren descend into what he’d believed to be madness. He’d stood amongst the crowd, a knot of fear tightening his gut, as the afflicted were dragged away, their desperate pleas echoing in the cavernous halls. Now, a horrifying realization dawned within him: he was experiencing that same unsettling shift. Was he, too, succumbing to the dreaded "demon-taint"?
But a fierce, instinctive denial clawed its way through his despair. This wasn’t madness. The energy he sensed felt undeniably real, a tangible presence vibrating in the very air. And then, a horrifying confirmation. He saw it coalesce, a swirling vortex of the same strange energy gathering at the maw of a hulking daemon. A guttural roar ripped through the air, and a searing torrent of fire erupted, washing over the ranks of nearby ratmen. Their armor, forged in the heat of the forges, buckled and melted like tallow in the inferno.
Boltthrower recoiled, the stench of burning flesh and superheated metal stinging his nostrils. This was no delusion. This raw, destructive power, this energy he now perceived, was real and is a weapon wielded with terrifying efficacy. Was this truly the psychosis the mages spoke of?
A grim understanding settled upon Boltthrower. The fate of those who had spoken of such things was a stark lesson etched in his memory. Silence, a cloak of normalcy, was now his only shield. The mages, cloistered in their arcane towers, remained blissfully unaware of this creeping "taint," this subtle shift in perception, until some desperate soul, driven by fear and a naive hope for salvation, foolishly confessed their experience. Their pleas, Boltthrower recalled with a shiver, had been met not with understanding, but with swift and brutal termination.
Under the cloak of night, as the relentless tide of daemons continued their advance, Boltthrower deliberately lagged behind the main body of the retreating ratmen army. This ebb and flow was a grimly efficient tactic, a silent acknowledgment of their limitations. Unlike the daemons, fueled by some unholy and inexhaustible power, the skaven knew fatigue. As one wave of their warriors, bloodied and weary, fell back, a fresh horde surged forward, their numbers seemingly endless, many bearing strange, newly devised contraptions designed to exploit the darkness.
The trek back to the relative safety of the fortified camp felt like an eternity, each step heavy with the weight of his secret. Finally, the rough-hewn walls loomed into view. But instead of relief, a fresh wave of chilling horror washed over Boltthrower. Standing guard atop the ramparts, their silhouettes stark against the flickering torchlight, were the mages. And surrounding each of them, swirling like an invisible aura, was the same energy he now perceived. Yet, unlike the raw, chaotic emanations that clung to the daemons, the energy around the mages felt structured, disciplined, almost... cultivated.
A profound unease settled deep within Boltthrower’s gut. "What secret was the Empire hiding?" The unspoken question hung heavy in the night air. He now saw the truth that had been invisible before. This energy was not alien to his people; it was a constant presence, woven into the fabric of their world. But they remained untouched, oblivious, their bodies somehow rejecting or ignoring its subtle influence. He, however, was different. His very being now resonated with this strange power, divergence from his kin. The implications were staggering, hinting at a hidden layer of reality, a secret the Empire guarded jealously, and his place within it was now terrifyingly uncertain.
Finding a secluded spot, Boltthrower settled down to await his meager meal, his thoughts turning inward, focusing on the strange lot of his people.
Despite the undeniable coercion, a sliver of gratitude flickered within the ratmen. They were, at least, permitted to wage this brutal war on their own terms.